


Sentimental Iterations

by fabella



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Betaed, Betrayal, Big Brother Dean, Bottom Sam, Brother Feels, Castiel is Not Innocent, Castiel's Trenchcoat, Castiel-centric, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Deception, Dogs, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Grief/Mourning, Homelessness, Human Castiel, Hurt Sam Winchester, Longing, M/M, Mental Instability, Moral Dilemmas, Oral Sex, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rimming, Romance, Sacrifice, Sam is a big damn hero, Sastiel Big Bang 2015, Season/Series 10, Season/Series 11, Semi Curtain Fic, Series Spoilers, Show level violence, Skinny Dipping, Slow Burn, The Darkness - Freeform, Winchester Style Death (Not Typical Death), a man goes on a journey and a stranger comes to town, all the sex, character exploration, okay not all the sex but a lot of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 22:54:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5393315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabella/pseuds/fabella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel learned everything he knows about devotion from the Winchesters. In this peaceful future built on the back of Sam Winchester’s most recent sacrifice, Castiel discovers that death itself can be overcome. If he’s willing to pay the price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sentimental Iterations

**Author's Note:**

> Set after season 10. An entirely different take on season 11. Written before and during the early episodes of season 11 airing. Not all questions will be answered. Gratuitous hand-waving occurs.

**(Present)**

It’s damn hard to plan around. The day changes every year. There is a window of time, sure, but it’s not like Castiel can take a month off work every August or September and hope he has a job when he comes back. Mrs. Briggs is a nice boss, but even if she likes to force a vacation day on him here and there, as well as a sandwich, she has her limits. She’s also going through a divorce. So while he is currently within that magical window of time where all his dreams can come true, and even though he’s a mobile pair of baggy eyes prone to clock watching, Castiel drags himself out of bed every morning, puts his big boy pants on, and lives his damn life. 

Castiel is living his damn life on one such morning, stacking ant traps on a dusty shelf, when he feels a tug somewhere in the vicinity of his navel, like a zipper catching. Castiel anchors himself to the shelf with flat palms as the sensation widens. It gapes inside him. Castiel refuses to close his eyes, instead grits his teeth and revels in the ecstatic dread. Even his ear lobes burn.

It’s a Thursday. Seasonably warm for late summer in Maine. Castiel is scheduled to work until six tonight and Jack wants him to swing by the docks to repair some nets if he feels up to it.

Today. Of course today, why not today? Castiel laughs.

Mr. Palmer passes Castiel during this fit, but he’s a shy older man that has no time for busy bodies, it says so on his facebook page, so he tips his hat to Castiel and hobbles toward the plumbing aisle. Castiel unlatches his hands. His knuckles crack. A cart loaded with boxed merchandise blocks the aisle in front of chemicals where Castiel leaves it. He grabs his paycheck and clocks out early. 

Tonya observes his exit from the cashier island. She thinks he’s creepy because he doesn’t date. He overheard her talking about his supposed murderous inclinations in the post office once. Every now and then he lingers near a little too long to keep her wondering. He isn’t interested in her today. He needs to put fresh food in the fridge. He needs to buy beer. Something dark.

A twenty minute walk home takes twelve minutes instead. The strap from his reusable shopping bag has worn a hot rut into his shoulder. Castiel tugs his damp shirt away from his sticky neck as he crests the road that leads to the diminutive fishing cottage he owns. 

It sits like a tiny pebble at the base of the hulking mountain as Castiel slows his approach, a little piece of blue sea brought to shore and given roots. On every side there is a white picket fence Castiel built with his own hands. Sam helped him pull the splinters out. The blue paint has been bleached by too much sunshine and salt on the wind, and Jack is always telling him to get someone to fix the loose shingles or he’ll end up on the roof himself. God forbid you put that man on a ladder. He’d break his neck.

Tighten the shutters. Trim the grass. Wash the windows

Last year, about this time, Castiel would have still been that man. Okay, at least a puzzle with enough pieces to make that image fit. There were flowers in his garden then. It’s a garden for snakes now. On cue, Castiel passes the same dead snake as every other day, dried out and fixed to the dirt, head crushed into sediment. Time will make it a fossil, if the snake is lucky.

Castiel pauses at the fence and allows himself one glance at the class five road that leads up the mountain. A red winged bird bounces happily around the opening in the trees, a dead worm caught in its beak. It jumps soundlessly into a pothole in the dirt and vanishes from sight. It doesn’t emerge. Castiel cracks his neck and goes inside to put the groceries away.

The dogs are happy enough to be let out of the kennel early. They skitter around the small living room with abandon, kicking up throw rugs and scratching over the scarred wood. Riotous bodies knock the furniture askew and it’s simpler to sit and welcome the explosion. 

“Careful,” Castiel says, hands full of fur. “Easy now.”

Castiel lets them pile over him for a while, roughly scrubs each flank, endures the head butts and the occasional tongue is his nostril, then sets fresh water dishes on the porch. The only part of the town he can see through the trees is the church steeple. The bronze bell glints shades of copper and rust. It rings on the hour until it gets dark, then waits for morning. The sea beyond washes inevitably toward the town in foaming white overtures. The dogs slurp at the water, tails in the air. Castiel glances at his watch.

He showers mercilessly. He scrubs his skin until it is pink and stinging and large welts feather his sides. He feels the heat bloom under his fingertips as blood rushes to the surface to investigate the damage he’s left behind. After, he runs a black comb through his dripping hair, scraping it behind his ears. He brushes his teeth, then stands, naked and goose-pimpled before the mirror as he stares at himself until the pieces of his face begin to separate. 

Castiel still dreams that his eyes leak the red haze of Rowena’s madness. 

He smiles. So does his reflection. The beard makes him look lonely, so he shaves. His phone lights up periodically where it collects moisture on a pile of discarded clothes.

Time passes. It does that.

Castiel has both arms buried to the elbow in dish water when he hears the dogs barking joyfully in the front yard. He freezes momentarily, heart skittering out of control, and bubbles rupture along his forearms. He leans forward, clutching a dripping bowl, to peer though the small kitchen window. Through the streaked glass, Sara is visible spinning circles by the wooden gate, tongue hanging out and yellow tail wagging exuberantly. Daylight is generous even past six in the evening. No one is cresting the dirt drive or descending from the mountain road.

Castiel finishes washing his supper dishes and puts the last plate in the drainer to dry. He carefully folds the dish towel and sets it aside. For a moment, he leans against the sink and lets his chin drop to his chest. He rocks on his feet, clutching the edge of the counter as the agony of hope in his gut slowly subsides. The dogs continue their cheerful serenade.

When Castiel steps onto the porch, two of the three dogs jump over each other and rush to greet him as if they haven’t seen him in a year. The oldest, an orange boxer-mix named Peach, stays seated on her haunches, eyes fixed on the trail. Silent. Castiel takes a seat on the stairs, bare toes absorbing the warmth retained in the wooden steps. He scrubs at the back of Sarah’s neck while she pants and her collar jangles. She licks his wrist and stares up at him. A reflection of him glows in her deep brown eyes.

“Do we have company?” he asks her.

She slurps the air and grins.

A cool evening breeze parts the trees and strokes over the stretch of pasture, entangling tall grass with drooping sunflowers. Clouds move slowly. Trees bend. In the distance, a shrinking town inches into irrelevance. Castiel shivers and closes his eyes. He looks at his internal clock, dusty and alone in the cellar of his heart, and wills the second hand to spin faster. Sarah suddenly tenses and begins to vibrate, and Castiel can feel it all the way down to the chipped paint under his ass. He vibrates at the same frequency, tongue fitted to the roof of his mouth. 

Castiel opens his eyes like ripping off a bandage.

A tall, lean figure steps out of the trees. Peach barks ecstatically and clears the fence with the same speed and agility that Castiel’s blood uses to rush to his dick and his heart. She races up the winding dirt trail to meet Sam, paws barely touching the ground. Sam’s long legs eat up the space between them almost as quickly. Castiel stands, knees cracking, and shades his eyes. 

Sam drops into a crouch to brace for Peach, who slams into him with every day of pent up longing from this lonely year. She licks his face obsessively, long tongue not missing his wide smile. Sam sputters, clutching her and laughing as she jumps all over him, slobbering her heartbreak. She whimpers and follows his face when he tries to turn away. Sam’s laughter reaches Castiel and he has to cross his arms to ward against it, clutch his ribs because they want to expand like wings. He waves, but Sam doesn’t see him yet, so he tucks his hands into his back pockets and waits with the other dogs.

Sam’s wearing the same outfit as last year. Of course. Jeans with ripped knees and a thin white tee-shirt stretched at the neck so that it droops below his collarbone. He has that same olive green duffel bag thrown over his shoulder. His hair is to his shoulders, loose, clean looking and glowing red with the dying sunlight. He flicks it out of his eyes with a toss of his chin. Castiel wants to consume him.

Sam looks up as if he is drawn by the violence, meets Castiel’s stern gaze.

It’s as good as an angel knife striking the heart.

Sam gets his legs under him again and raises a hand to Castiel, smiling beguilingly. Castiel unclenches and waves back, starts forward just as Sam does. Peach keeps pace with Sam, butting hungrily against his leg between every step. They meet at the gate and Castiel holds onto it, measuring the absence of time on Sam’s tan face while Sam takes an equal measure of its existence on Castiel’s.

“You have gray hair,” are Sam’s first words, a dry rasp like words are uncommon. He clears his throat as Castiel drags a hand through his own hair, huffing.

“Very little,” Castiel says. “I have it on good authority that I’m becoming a silver fox.”

Sam slants a smile at him, the actual fox in the yard.

“You look like a professor I had,” Sam says. He bestows a glance to Peach, whose tongue hangs shamelessly from her mouth as she all but flutters her eyelashes up at him, and puts a comforting hand on her head. He frowns at her. “You shouldn’t do this. I keep telling you---”

“You’re my friend,” Castiel says. “This is my choice.”

This is a reboot of Sam’s old favorite: don’t help me, don’t save me, don’t wait for me.

Sam stares at him, irises green and brown and blue like a photograph of the planet they stand upon. After a moment, he smiles that same sad smile he always does, the one that started fucking Cas up sometime after Sam started daydreaming about the devil, and reaches out to loop one colossal arm around the back of Castiel’s neck, tugging him roughly forward until Castiel’s nose is buried against his shoulder. God. Damn. That’s good. Castiel leans against the gate to wrap both arms around Sam’s middle. He ignores the wood digging into his pelvis and holds on with as much of his measly human strength he can muster. Sam doesn’t shatter into a memory in his grasp. It’s a relief. 

“Good to see you, Cas,” Sam mumbles. 

He has no idea.

Like Peach, an unrestrained joy rises up in Castiel, making his heart beat faster so that his blood rushes ardently throughout his body. If he were only a dog instead, he would lick all over Sam’s face and stick his tongue in Sam’s mouth to finally learn what his spit tastes like. Instead, he drags his nose across Sam’s collarbone and inhales the tangy scent under the warm cotton. Sam cups the back of Castiel’s skull and under Castiel’s cheek, Sam’s heart is as steady as Atlas.

Castiel places this memory in an envelope with all the others, just in case.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, grazing his fingers up Sam’s ribs.

“I could eat,” Sam says, and his voice rumbles beneath Castiel’s mouth.

*

Sam’s focus on the chicken casserole is complete. The dogs plant eagerly at his feet in a half circle of wagging tails, drool gathering on their panting tongues, but Sam takes every bite unhurriedly and precisely, making throaty noises that Castiel politely ignores. He picks at his own plate, longing half-heartedly for a piece of chocolate cake. Devil’s Food. Sam takes a break to gulp down the glass of lemonade and Castiel observes the muscles in his throat flutter as he swallows. A sip of lemonade escapes the corner of his mouth and shivers on his neck. Castiel holds his tongue, and darts a look at the apple shaped clock above the sink. It’s approaching seven.

When the bowl is clean, Sam attempts to fit his face inside to lick it and ends up with sauce on his nose. Sarah barks in approval, and the other dogs join in, until Sam sits back and clutches his stomach, smiling too enthusiastically for leftovers. Peach puts her head in his lap immediately and the others dance around behind her jealously.

“I think I could eat that every day,” Sam says.

“Been awhile?” Castiel asks.

Sam shrugs. He’s never given the tiniest description of what it’s like when he’s gone or where he goes. He thinks he’s being kind. Castiel grits his teeth and bears the ignorance.

“Something like that,” Sam says. “Do you have any beer?” Castiel moves to get up, but Sam waves a hand at him. “Nah, old man, I got it. Don’t break your hip on my account.”

Castiel huffs, but remains seated and watches Sam open the refrigerator and push stuff around awkwardly until he finds the glass bottle rolling around on the bottom shelf. He twists the cap off, taking a long sip from the beer that flexes his throat. The window is darkening imperceptibly behind him. The fireflies will come out soon. Sam takes a spin around the room, the dogs parading behind. It’s only four or five steps from one side to the other for him. The kitchen is smaller with him in it. Sam drags a hand over the counter, tips over a precarious tower of envelopes.

“Dean ever write?”

It always comes around to that question eventually. Every single year.

Sam picks up one envelope, flips it without looking and sets it aside. His eyes skitter around the room, blocking the exits and hazards, like he hasn’t stood in that exact spot a hundred times before.

“He prefers postcards. Less surface area.”

“Sounds right,” Sam says, smiling twitchily. “He, uh. He’s doing better, then.”

“He’s adapted,” Castiel says, spacing the words apart. It’s not a lie. Not exactly.

“Good,” Sam says, mostly to himself. He turns and stares out the window and runs a hand along the counter, and he’s a ghost of himself, an image of the past in the present. He turns the faucet on and runs his hand under it with his palm facing down, then tips it to the side, lets the water stream between his spread fingers. He stays like that for a few minutes, and Castiel wonders what’s in his head. Is it filling up with all the shadows and trip wires that make Sam the walking war zone Castiel knows and loves? Sam shuts the water off, then begins cautiously opening one cabinet after another, as if plates and glasses are elaborate spectacles to gawk at. Treasures to be rediscovered. 

Being dead for a year can really do a number on the synapses.

He returns to Castiel in pieces. Sometimes he needs Castiel to remind him about small things, like how to tie his shoes or what his middle name is. It’s all muscle memory until Sam can lock himself into place. Castiel hates this part, but Castiel wants to nail him down, too. The quicker the better.

“How do you feel?” Castiel turns in the creaky chair to chase the sight of him. “Any headaches? You remembered the bag we sent you with last time. That’s a good sign.”

Sam shrugs. “It was nice to arrive to supplies this time.”

“That’s good,” Castiel says. Asks. “Come sit, Sam.”

Sam looks at him blankly then settles with his back to the refrigerator and drains the rest of his beer. He sighs after and wipes his mouth and nose on the back of his hand, leaving it raised for a minute and eyeballing Castiel over it. He’s nervous, Castiel thinks. It takes too long for him to drop his hand.

“You look tired,” Sam says, digging for conversation. He winces, clearly scraping his brain for the details. “Still working extra hours on the water?”

“Yes,” Castiel says. He is as fixated as the dogs are, leaning forward now with his fingers threaded together between his knees. Is this position too aggressive? He sits back. “Jack needs as many hands as he can get right now. His daughters are away at college. They help when they’re on break, but it’s not enough.”

“College!” Sam brightens. “Already?”

“Yes. They graduated last summer. Cheyenne wants to be an architect. Lily wants---well, who know what Lily wants. She listens to a lot of pop music.”

“Wow. College, I can’t believe it.” Sam rubs the back of his neck, forehead wrinkling as he peers at Cas. “Sometimes I think I should still be there, but that’s not right, is it. Time flies, huh?”

Castiel tilts his head. Oh, he thinks. He knows that face. He’s probably not going to like what Sam is putting distance between them for.

“You’re not back for long, I take it.”

Sam looks away. A firefly flashes behind his shoulder.

“Sam,” Castiel says. “Tell me how long.”

Sam squares his jaw and stands up straight. He looks slightly to the left of Castiel. 

“Two days. Maybe less.”

It’s like someone cuts the strings in his spine. Castiel gasps and drops forward into his own lap, hands covering his face and blinding him. Sam says his name from across a rushing current of water, and Castiel laughs raggedly, drowning. A wet nose touches his cheek. Sarah, probably. He was right. He’d been right all along. His ears are ringing. Sam’s big hands grasp Castiel’s shoulders, give him a shake that knocks his hands away from his eyes, and Sam’s face is right there, not a day older than six years ago when Castiel put him in the ground. There is a sheen of sweat on his forehead and nose and he’s saying Castiel’s name on repeat, his teeth gleaming as they close around the syllables. 

“Shh, Cas, it’s okay, it’s okay,---Jesus! Would you calm down, just breathe---”

Castiel surfaces from beneath the haze with a dizzying lurch and takes a hold of Sam by his hair, clutches him for balance or to take them both under, who knows. Castiel digs into Sam with his eyes, but Sam’s skate to the left, then the right, and eventually, he closes them so he can escape inside. Castiel’s eyes prick in answer, but he takes a deep breath, and the moment passes. Sam breathes with him, lips parting, and Castiel watches and measures each breath until they are in sync.

It helps.

He slowly releases Sam’s hair, one tuft at a time. It flops into place like one of the dog’s ears. Sam drops away like he has a few missing strings himself, sits back on his heels and tests the stretchiness of his jeans with his thighs. He opens his eyes, and in them, Castiel recognizes the apology. It’s a wet gaze, forest green: he’s sorry, but not sorry enough to stop. It’s easy to forget when things are actually his fault when you’re so busy feeling bad that he feels bad.

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” Castiel warns. “I’m fine.”

“You’re good at that.” Sam frowns. “You almost mean that now.”

“Well. I learned from the best.” Castiel doesn’t bother faking a smile. “Two days, huh?”

Sam bites his lip, then stands. He offers Castiel his hand. Castiel stares at it and hesitates. Two days, he thinks. 48 hours, give or take. Two thousand, eight hundred, and eighty minutes to tell Sam the truth. He’s not going to. He doesn’t feel bad about that.

“Let’s go for a walk.” Sam wiggles his fingers. “C’mon, Cas. Entertain me.”

Castiel takes Sam’s hand. It’s warm. It always is.

*

 

Sarah races too far ahead of them on the road to town, so Castiel puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles. She struts back to them and does a loop around each of them before running off again, getting nearly as far before slowing. Trouble maker. She loves one on one time. Two on one is even better. She’s not a proud dog, for all her prancing.

Sam walks leisurely at Castiel’s side, staring at the sky. It’s dark enough that the stars are breaking through. Castiel knows from constant exposure that the town doesn’t produce enough light pollution to diminish the wonder. Every few steps Castiel hears Sam inhale through his nose and watches his chest expand. He’s not distracted by the presentation above their heads, because the stars come out every night. Sam seldom does.

A dimple appears in Sam’s cheek as he smiles, deep enough to hold a coin.

“Stop staring,” Sam says, still apparently focused on the sky.

“I see no reason to stop,” Castiel says. “I’ll keep you from falling in a ditch.”

“My hero.”

Sam fakes a swoon and sways into Castiel’s side, brushing their elbows together. Castiel feels the usual tingle. Sam doesn’t move away when Castiel takes hold of his upper arm to guides him over the ruts in the dirt road. They didn’t remember a flashlight. This solution suits him.

“So, you’re still working at the hardware store in town?”

“Mmm,” Castiel says. 

“How’s the fishing right now?”

“Fine,” Cas says. He digs his thumb into the meat of Sam’s muscle and finds the dim hint of a pulse. “Good.”

“Well don’t use all your words on my account,” Sam huffs. “Jesus, Cas.”

“Don’t blaspheme, Sam. Jesus.”

Sam chuckles and shoves Castiel with his hip.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, and Castiel looks up at him curiously. “Well, I would anyway. If I were a corporeal being the rest of the year.”

Castiel stops. Sam is pulled up short by Castiel’s hold on him. He looks over his shoulder at Castiel, and a group of fireflies light up around them, casting a green-yellow glow over the curves of Sam’s beautiful face. Is he real, Castiel wonders. An insane man wouldn’t question his own sanity, though. So Sam must be real. Castiel doesn’t have to worry that he’s only a figment dreamed up by an insane, lonely man in his forties. 

“Cas,” Sam wonders. “You look so sad.”

“Not right now, I’m not,” Castiel says. He takes hold of Sam with both hands and just looks at him again. “I want to tell you. I’ve missed you, too. Very much.”

Sam’s lips turn down. 

“Sometimes, I think,” Sam says, then trails off. He wrinkles his nose. “I don’t know. I feel like you’re ahead of me somehow. I can’t keep up.”

“I’m corporeal all year long now,” Castiel reminds him.

Thanks to Sam.

Sam scans Castiel’s face slowly, lingering on his mouth.

Sarah barks at them shrilly. Castiel rolls his eyes in her direction. She’s wagging her tail close by, having found a ball she herself might have buried for just this circumstance. He gives Sam a final squeeze and releases him. It’s like letting go of a piece of bread after not eating for several days. He gives Sarah a dirty look, but takes the ball out of her mouth, too broken in to care about the sticky residue from her spit. He lobs it as hard as he can into the dark grass and Sarah takes off instantly, muscles shuddering. 

Castiel resumes walking, Sam appearing a moment later at his side, but their footsteps don’t sync up. Silence reigns, broken only by the sound of distant water and their misaligned tread over scattered pebbles. Two days isn’t a lot of time to acclimate to each other’s company, but it’s impossible to force companionship. It always comes if he waits. He can’t manufacture it.

Don’t come on too strong, he reminds himself. 

Don’t stand too close or look for too long. 

They walk for a while longer until the sky is blanketed with stars and the distant hush of waves becomes more distinct, the air heavy with fish and salt. Sarah slinks off down a side trail covered in overgrown grass, ball still clenched in her jaws. Sam glances at him and Castiel nods, nudging Sam forward. Sam takes the trail carefully, climbing over the dune and pausing at the top. Castiel sees his shoulders hitch.

“I remember this,” Sam says. “It looks---different, though.”

“There was a hurricane,” Castiel explains, cresting to stand next to him. The beach snakes out into the water. Indistinct houses light up the distant shore. “It took out the dock and reshaped the beach. I’m surprised you recognize it so early. It’s been longer this time.”

Sam inhales. Wind plucks his bangs.

“I loved it,” he says. “That first summer. Camping with you for weeks. It was the first time in years that I could just stop and let myself be human.”

The stars crowd the horizon and glint off the water but Castiel sees instead the plastic side of the tent lit up by early morning sunlight. Sam’s bare shoulder and the soft curve of his neck. The dozen tiny dark speckles marking his blue-tinted back. His own knuckles, fingers barely extending, grazing where Sam’s wings could have been, had they been created brothers.

“It meant a lot to me,” Sam is saying as Castiel refocuses, Sam’s scattered features coalescing into the pointed nose, square eyebrow face of guilt. “What you did for me. What you’re still doing. I could forget a lot of things, but not that.”

Castiel blinks at him.

“I’m getting sappy,” Sam says. He grins. “Good. My mental health is on the fast track.”

“I don’t know about that,” Castiel mutters. “It rained yesterday, so the water might be a little cooler, but I think it’s still nice enough for a swim. If you want.”

Sam eyes him sidelong. “I’d have to be naked.”

“My motives are pure, I assure you.” Castiel puts a hand over his lying heart. “Besides, I seem to recall it’s difficult to keep clothes on you when you’re next to any significant body of water.”

Sam waggles his eyebrows.

Castiel huffs. “Well, forget it---”

Sam darts ahead, kicking up sand behind him.

“Race ya!” Sam shouts.

Castiel shakes his head and hangs back to observe Sam kick his shoes off and send them spinning into the air as he runs at the water. They’ll be full of sand and god knows what else when they dig them out of the dark later. Sam pauses at the edge of the water to rip his shirt over his head and unbutton his jeans. He shucks them in one motion, pulling his boxers down with them. His bare ass is pale in the moonlight. Perky. Castiel pulls his lips in tight and whistles. Sarah and Sam look over their shoulders as one, Sarah with a cocked head and lifted ear. Sam with raised eyebrows.

Castiel slow claps.

“Don’t give me any ideas,” Sam says as he wads up his clothes into a sloppy ball. He tosses them at Castiel, forcing him forward to catch them. When he pulls Sam’s shirt out of his eyes, Sam is a lean shape wading into the black water, arms spread out like a set of wings. The lighthouse beckons on the far shore, beam slipping silently over the dark waves. It doesn’t quite reach them.

Castiel bends to untie his shoes and sets them neatly aside, laces tucked inside with his socks.

He rolls his pant legs to his knees. The sand is still warm. Sam turns when he is submerged to his hips, and crosses his arms when he spots Castiel still on the beach.

“What gives, Cas?”

“Two moons are more than enough, don’t you think?” Castiel approaches the water’s edge and dips a toe in. It’s luke warm. Barely. “I don’t have your same appreciation for the natural state of the human body, I think. I’m good where I am.”

“You’re boring where are,” Sam says. “Suit yourself.”

Sam dives into the water and it swallows him whole. Castiel steps in so that the tide slips over his ankle bones and wets the hair on his calves, pushing and pulling. Sarah terrorizes a crab some distance away, sneezing when it scuttles too close. Sam breaches the surface with a tremendous splash, gasping and slicking his hair back. Castiel can’t quite make it out with the limitations of human eyesight, but he can see the gleam of Sam’s teeth and guess that he is smiling.

“How does it feel?” 

Sam takes a while to answer him.

“Like a good dream.” Sam paddles quietly in a circle, barely splashes. “I’ve been here before, on a night like this. More clouds, maybe. Do you remember?”

“I do.”

Sam was naked then as well. Castiel wore shorts. He was sick with endless anticipation.

“Last time we were here, we brought body boards, right?”

“The waves were too small.” Castiel smiles. He digs his toes into the mud. “Peach got a hold of one of them while we slept on the beach and chewed it up.”

“We ate soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It was the last day before I had to leave.”

Castiel kicks some water. Sarah barks and jumps into the tide and quickly leaps back out, splashing wildly. Castiel ends up soaked down his right side. He sighs as she darts off after a fish.

“You’re really not going to swim?” Sam asks. He leans into the push of the waves, letting it keep him afloat. Castiel shrugs and puts his hands in his pockets.

“I’m good. I just want to watch.”

“Weirdo,” Sam accuses, but he fades back into the water contentedly, draping himself into the waves and letting them carry him forward before struggling back to repeat the process. His body picks up the light of the moon furtively, visible for darting, stolen instants. It’s possible he’s taunting Castiel with what he wants. Sam has a viciously hard mind, despite the confusion that clouds it upon each return. He also has a selfish streak. He likes to be wanted. If Sam knows, Castiel doesn’t want to learn of it.

The normal thing to do would be to strip and dive in, spend the next few hours splashing Sam and sneaking up on him under the dark water to grab a hairy thigh. Maybe a few years ago, he would have done just that and been happy with it, satisfied enough to cop a feel with the excuse of comradeship to blunt the neediness of the touch. Sam has always had a unique ability to normalize Castiel, to make a functioning person out of him instead of the burned out shotgun shell he sometimes feels like. With Sam, he laughs. He bickers. He says stupid things he can regret later. People like him more.

Castiel watches Sam duck under the water. Legs break the surface behind him like a tail.

Grabbing his thigh wouldn’t be enough. He’s been gone too long.

“Don’t drown,” Castiel reminds him when Sam comes up for air with too much delay. 

“You’d save me,” Sam says, and melts away again.

Castiel remains at the edge of the water for the duration of Sam’s swim. Salt dries on his face and collects in his hair. He watches Sarah and Sam play in the water until clouds drift across the moon and it becomes to dark to track them properly. He retrieves the sand filled lumps of Sam’s sneakers and beats out his boxers as well as he can. Sarah takes her cue to shake off on the shore and Sam follows her example, slapping water out of his ear and nearly falling sideways with the effort. When he regains his balance, he drips his way toward Castiel where he is retying his shoelaces.

The closer he gets, the easier it is to pick out his individual parts. All of them.

Castiel sustains eye contact as he stands and trades Sam the pile of clothes and shoes for a bit of his own dignity. Sam studies Castiel closely. Too closely. Too naked. Too naked and too close. Castiel considers closing his eyes, but that would be a tell. The range of human expression is irritating.

“I’m sorry I’ve been away so long,” Sam says. His voice is soft and water drips off his nose. “You seem off somehow. I can’t tell if it’s my mind playing tricks on me, but I’ll say it again. I’m sorry. For whatever you’re going through. For whatever that’s worth.”

He’s as sincere as a puppy. Castiel glares.

“Please, Sam, quit apologizing.” Castiel pokes Sam in the chest. “We’ve had this argument many times. I know you did what you thought was right. You always do. It’s the schism in the Winchester pathology. You don’t blame a dog for chasing cats, men for chasing skirts, or a Winchester for chasing death. It’s genetics. Great idea, Dad.” He exhales loudly. “And wonderful, now I’m annoyed. My father issues are showing. You’re annoying. Put your pants on, please. Heathen.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam says. He gets sand all over them both when he bends to comply and Castiel lifts his gaze heavenwards when Sam’s head comes too close to Castiel’s belt buckle. “Jesus, you’re a grumpy old man. Who pissed in your geritol?”

“What did I say about blaspheming.”

Castiel spins on his heel and begins trudging toward solid land. He distinctly feels Sam stick his tongue out in retaliation and smiles a little, to himself, where Sam can’t see it. He feels more balanced now that they are bickering. Maybe he should pick a fight during the walk home. Sam will be chafing just enough from the combination of salt, sand, and jeans to fall for it. Sam whistles for Sarah somewhere behind him and Castiel hears the jangle of her collar as she follows them over the dune.

“Where to next?” Sam asks when he catches up.

“Next?” Castiel wonders. “We could go into town for an hour, I guess. There’s a concert in the park. A Celtic band, I think.”

“A concert beneath the stars?” Sam beams. “Cas, it’s like you planned this.”

Castiel ignores him.

The light passes over the water again, in warning.

 

*

It’s nearly midnight when they get home. Sarah is so tired she can barely climb the front steps and Sam is forced to boost her up from behind. She halfheartedly nips at him then falls into a puddle of fur and contentment inside the front door. She doesn’t bother snoring. 

Castiel passes Sam two enormous fluffy towels. Big and tall style.

“You smell like a wet dog,” Castiel says, gruffly.

Sam takes the towels with big eyes as if Castiel is gifting him with the fabric of heaven itself. He presses them to his cheek as he instinctively finds his way toward the bathroom in the dark, only opening the wrong door once. That’s what progress looks like now. Peach weaves behind Sam, hind paws click clacking anxiously as she waits to be noticed. Castiel leans against the entrance of the hallway until the bathroom door is shut around Sam and Peach both, and light reaches out from under it. He isn’t aware he’s smiling until it fades.

Not looking at Sam feels like a loss.

Castiel retreats to his bedroom and strips to his briefs in the dark. His breathing is loud when he opens the nightstand drawer and retrieves his cell from under a stack of home improvement magazines. He swallows twice but whatever is lodged in his throat doesn’t budge. The phone display lights up as Castiel dials right where he is, hunched in the dark like a question mark.

“Tomorrow night,” Castiel says, staring at nothing. “Are you ready?”

There is a pause on the other end, the sound of pouring liquid. Ice cubes against glass.

“Yes.”

Castiel hangs up, then powers the phone down and returns it to the drawer. He pulls on a mostly clean shirt and a pair of powder blue pajamas that have long since lost their drawstring. Sam is singing in the shower when Castiel passes by, so Castiel pauses and tilts his head to listen. The water pulses unevenly, truly terrible pressure, and under the spray, Castiel can hear a faint imitation of the Celtic band. The lyrics are Gaelic. Slippery and knotted. Out of reach. Sam likely has no idea what they mean. Castiel would have once, but that is another skill he lost to the darkness.

Sam is an awful singer. The beautiful lyrics emerge flat, out of tune. It’s wonderful.

In the kitchen, Castiel dodges Roxie as he fixes two simple bologna and cheese sandwiches. A crack of thunder cuts abruptly through the quiet, and Roxie goes scrambling, knocking into the furniture, then Castiel, then scuttling down the hallway to his bedroom.

Castiel opens the kitchen door and lets in a gust of cold, electric air.

Beyond the town, the ocean and the clouds roil like a single entity. Lightning cuts the dark, making a whole section of the sky glow like it’s the middle of day. 

Two days, he thinks. 48 hours. How many heartbeats is that?

Castiel eats his sandwich there in the doorway, as the twist and turn of water and clouds mirror the snakes in his belly. The bread sticks to the roof of his mouth. He scrapes it off with his thumb and flicks it out onto the grass beyond the porch. He considers and throws the rest of his sandwich with it just as the floorboards creak behind him. Castiel turns to find Sam approaching, the bright pink towel knotted at his hips and the other draped over his shoulders. He looks familiar there, with his hair pushed off his forehead and behind his ears, fifties’ slicker style, dark with water.

Castiel is in love with him.

“Is it supposed to storm?” Sam asks, a gleam of excitement in his eyes. “I haven’t seen it rain in a while.” He pauses, puffs out his cheeks. “I don’t think.”

“Intermittent thunder showers,” Castiel parrots. “Until four in the morning.”

Sam sidles up behind him excitedly.

“It feels like lightning,” Sam says, and it sure does. Castiel swallows. 

“Just noisy,” he answers, and on cue, thunder cracks. 

Sam startles like Roxie, if Roxie were six foot four and rippling with muscle. He lashes out and grabs Castiel’s forearm, yanking Castiel against the solid wall of his own body. Sam squeaks but Castiel doesn’t have the air in him to make a noise. The concussion of their bodies knocked it out of him. He simply drops his forehead against Sam’s collarbone and deals as Sam’s tremendous heartbeat shakes them both. Water gleams down the planes of Sam’s abdomen, shivering with each pulse of blood. 

“Sorry,” Sam whispers and relaxes the bruising vice around Castiel’s wrist without letting go. “I don’t know why I did that.”

“Don’t be,” Castiel says. He gently cups the hand Sam restrains him with. “You have a sandwich on the counter. Sit on the porch with me? If you’re not too scared.”

Sam releases him, one finger at a time.

Castiel leans away and looks up, up, and up.

“Only if you protect me,” Sam says, face tight with an out of place intensity. Castiel hasn’t defined it yet when Sam turns away for his sandwich. Castiel sighs helplessly, watching the flex and release of Sam’s behind under the towel. Trained in this kind of evasion, Castiel takes a seat on the lawn chair and props his feet up on the railing. His feet are flaky with dried salt and crystals of sand.

Sam returns a moment later, sandwich mostly eaten already. He holds onto his towel as he sits in the chair beside Castiel’s. As he does, the fabric gapes over one sturdy thigh and Castiel sighs again, more annoyed than aroused. They’re quiet for a while, observing the storm spread, the clouds expanding.

“Do you ever wonder if it could have.” Castiel stops himself and wonders why he said anything. He didn’t mean to say anything, but Sam is looking at him. “I don’t know, all came together differently somehow?”

“An alternate universe? I’ve seen them. They’re usually worse off.”

“A different path to this one,” Castiel corrects. Lightning flashes and cuts the water in two. “We get here, but not the way we did. Maybe Claire will say more than two words to me a year. I might make more than minimum wage.”

Sam laughs half heartedly. 

“You don’t die,” Castiel says.

Sam is quiet, then, “I try not to. I used to think about that all the time. There was no other path.”

“I would have stopped you,” Castiel says. He picks at a loose thread in the waist of his shirt. Rain hisses in the distance, approaching. “If you had told me what you were planning. If my brain wasn’t still so scrambled by Rowena.”

“Your brain was scrambled,” Sam says. “And I didn’t tell you. And you didn’t stop me.”

“I could have,” Castiel says. 

“No,” Sam says simply. “Not a chance.”

Castiel flinches. Sam leans into Castiel’s line of sight.

“You know me. By now, you know me as well as Dean does, if not a little better, and whoa, never tell him I said that if you want to live. You and I have walked the same path so many times that you can’t not know me. Remember your PB&J fueled epiphany? We’re more alike than I could accept then.”

Sam sits back and focuses on the town, a fog of untold emotion drifting over his expression.

“You couldn’t have stopped me. I could never stop you. We don’t stop.”

The drizzle of rain obscures the town, like a veil between it and them as thunder beckons the storm up the hill. As Castiel watches, fat drops of rain begin splattering up the dirt road. Edging closer. Water puddles in the ruts and overflows. Sam is right. Castiel lives the proof. Round and round they go. Where they stop---there’s no stopping either of them.

“I’m sorry to bring it up.” Sam in Castiel’s arms, but gone. “I don’t like to talk about it either and we don’t have enough time to waste it stirring each other up. Making you sad isn’t my goal.”

Sam nods and visibly relaxes, thighs and shoulders melting into the chair.

“But,” Castiel says. Sam tenses again. He meets Castiel’s eyes. “I really wish things were different.”

Sam cuts his gaze away. The rain hits the porch all at once, pings on the tin roof above their heads. Cold water splashes onto Castiel’s toes and drips over the bones of his ankles. It soaks the hem of his pajama bottoms, darkening the cloth. The sky lights up, a blast of daylight illuminating the town and the angry ocean beyond. Sam jitters uneasily beside him, knees bouncing under the towel. 

Castiel doesn’t reach out. 

He twists his watch and tests the sturdiness of the leather band.

 

* 

Castiel’s couch shouldn’t be slept on. Sitting on it is questionable. It was free, though. Castiel likes free. Sleeping on it a few days out of the year wasn’t going to kill him, probably. Since he can’t comfortably lay on his back because the cushions aren’t wide enough, Castiel tucks his face into the upholstery, puts one leg out straight, and drapes the other over the ornate top. He pulls the quilt up to his chin and stubbornly shuts his eyes. The necessity of sleep feels wasteful.

Sam is in Castiel’s bedroom, twenty seconds away.

He doesn’t remember when his brain finally stops looping through the details of the night, of what the coming weeks will look like, vague anxieties crowding into the narrow cushions with him until there isn’t enough space for both him and his worries. He’s awake, until he isn’t. He doesn’t dream substantially. Half remembered figments shift through his dreamscape like smoke. He has an entire universe and heaven in his head, but they hardly make sense to him now. It’s better that way.

Dim blue light fills the room when he wakes up. 

At first, he thinks it’s a natural waking. He never sleeps well for long. Over countless seconds, Castiel becomes aware of the fingers draped over his shoulder, the quiet sound of breathing just out of sight. Castiel shifts, twisting over on his hips. The hand moves to his chest, barely making contact. Sam kneels beside him, wrapped up in the flannel robe he went to bed in. It’s tied loosely, a mess of fabric that vaguely resembles a bow. Castiel remembers him all over again and smiles. Sam returns the favor, gentle.

“I remembered something,” Sam whispers, lips hardly moving. “I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t really want to sleep. So I was trying to remember. And I remembered it.”

Sam’s fingers stroke a pattern over his heart. Castiel hums and stretches with an all over shudder. He arches off the couch and Sam touch firms. He pushes Castiel back down.

“You kissed me, didn’t you,” Sam says, still quiet, so quiet.. “I didn’t dream that. Two years ago. You kissed me when I left. I didn’t have time to ask questions. That was convenient for you.”

Castiel doesn’t say anything. What is there to say, really. Sam knows what he knows. Castiel kissed him and they haven’t really seen each other since. And besides that, Sam’s very pleasant to look at in the early morning light. Castiel doesn’t think he’s seen Sam quite like this before. It feels like a secret. A bubble in time. Castiel could get away with anything.

“You’re always here.” Sam taps Castiel’s heart. “Always waiting for me. You’ve made a life out of waiting for me. Don’t you get tired of being here? Ever think of sending someone else to meet me?”

“I’d kill anyone who tried,” Castiel says hoarsely. “This is mine.”

“That’s messed up, Cas,” Sam says. “Six years. You couldn’t have said anything?”

Castiel sits up and the quilt falls into his lap. He lifts Sam’s hand. The knuckles are large and pock-marked. Little hairs dust the bridge of each finger. Sam turns his hand over and his fingers graze Castiel’s, tease with a spark of connection that makes Castiel’s tongue thick.

“Say something, Cas.”

“My interpersonal skills are lacking,” Castiel says. “I don’t know what you want to hear.”

“Not that,” Sam sighs. “Say something else.”

Castiel hesitates. He tries to stroke Sam’s hand, but his fingers do not work like they should. Sam’s other hand joins in, grasps Castiel’s trembling hand to hold it still. Sam links their fingers together and Castiel’s bones ache at the unfamiliar strain of physical touch. He flexes his fingers between Sam’s just to test the restraint. Sam squeezes back.

“You’re very attractive.” Castiel pauses to clear his throat. “I’m not immune.”

“So look at me, then.”

“If it won’t be too weird,” Castiel grouches, but lifts his head.

“I don’t really find it that creepy,” Sam admits.

Castiel holds his blank expression.

“I like it when you pay attention to me. I always did, even before. I didn’t think you liked me very much most of the time.”

“You were extremely frustrating,” Castiel says. “I couldn’t tune you out.”

Sam laughs.

“But,” Castiel continues, and Sam stops laughing. “It was what I found special about you. No one annoyed me quite like Sam Winchester annoyed me.”

“I’ll take the compliment,” Sam says. “I’m easy. And I want to be close to you. In any way you let me. I don’t want to make it worse for you though. You’re pretty much my last friend in the world. If you think you’d regret it, I’ll be just as happy doing what we always do. Drinking, fishing, and fighting. I’m lucky to have that. It’s more than I deserve.”

“What do you want, Sam?” Castiel asks.

“A kiss. Among other things,” Sam says. He releases Castiel’s hand and watches himself trace a line up the sensitive skin on Castiel’s inner arm. Castiel bites his lip at the sweet barely-there pressure. It’s like his veins want to lift out of his skin in answer. Sam pauses at the join of his elbow, fingertip forming a gentle circle, and lifts an eyebrow. His pupils swallow the irises. Castiel shivers, gut pulling tight at the thought of what Sam’s hands could do. This is taking too long.

Castiel shoves Sam’s hands aside and sends the quilt to the floor as he twists to bracket Sam with his knees. Sam gasps his surprise, hands fluttering. Castiel tugs Sam forward by the knot in the flannel robe, so close that his upturned nose grazes Castiel’s and Sam’s eyes begin to cross.

“Don’t waste time convincing me. Do everything now.”

Sam’s eyes eclipse the world. He crushes Castiel’s head between both hands and erases the distances between them, sealing their mouths together forcefully. This is their second kiss. Sam’s hand cancels out external sound. Castiel can hear only the pounding of his own heart as Sam’s lips move carefully over his own, shaping and re-shaping the kiss. Castiel kisses back wildly, artlessly, straining forward to chase after the maddening hint of warmth and wetness Sam hides behind his lips. Sam nudges Castiel’s cheek with his nose, gently, so gently, and Castiel takes hold of Sam’s bony wrists, whining.

“Open your mouth,” Castiel breathes.

Warm air bursts from Sam’s nostrils when Castiel touches their tongues together. Toothpaste flavors the kiss, and underneath it, the tang of salt water. The inside of his mouth is slick. Castiel loses himself to it, stomach twisting in a living ball that spins faster and grows larger with momentum. He was already hard, but his erection stiffens further, aching where it is compressed by his underwear. Sam kisses like he fights, with sharp bursts of evolving force, pressing Castiel’s lips against his teeth. It feels like he leaves blood behind on Castiel’s mouth, his jaw, his neck. Just under his ear.

It’s not enough.

Castiel grips the sides of Sam’s flannel robe and pushes it off his shoulders. It gets stuck on his elbows and Castiel bites Sam’s bottom lip, leaning his weight forward and forcing Sam to the floor, putting him on his back. Where Castiel wants him. Sam tries to sit up and grunts in surprise as Castiel shoves him down. Castiel tugs the robe the rest of the way off, jerking the tie out of the loops and throwing it into the dark. He kisses Sam’s cheek, under his chin, licks his pounding pulse, then lifts up, kneeling over Sam’s prone body. 

Sam wears only loose fitting boxers, the generous length of his erection warping the fabric.

Castiel has pictured this. Too many times.

He inhales deeply through his nose, scenting the sleep and sweat between them, and tries to moderate his breathing. Sends up a prayer for control to who the hell knows anymore. There is little point. Sam needs to be fucked through the floor. And oh look, there’s a floor right here. 

The expanding light curves over Sam’s feline brow, gleams in the blackness of his eyes. His lips are peeled back from his teeth with the hungriest little smile Castiel has ever seen. Castiel shifts over him, feels the heft of Sam’s sturdy ribs between his legs and barely holds himself back from digging his dick into the more forgiving flesh of Sam’s abdomen. Give him a minute of that and he’d be finished. Castiel is tempted.

Sam pushes a hand up Castiel’s bare thigh, fingers spread wide. Castiel hisses through his teeth, hips flexing. He can barely keep his eyes open when Sam clasps his hip.

“I bet you’re leaking for it,” Sam grunts at him, eyes narrow. 

Castiel doesn’t deny it. His licks his front teeth instead and rolls his hips, bumping his dick against Sam’s arm. Sam sucks in a breath and looks down at Castiel’s lap. He squeezes Castiel’s hips hard enough to leave a mark. Castiel drags his fingers roughly down Sam’s bare front. Sam lashes out and drags Castiel to him by the back of his neck. Sam’s mouth is waiting. Castiel welcomes him helplessly, sprawling his entire weight across Sam’s body and delighting where muscle and bone support him. Sam guides him through the nearly painful kiss by clutching his hair.

Castiel has never been kissed like this, by someone that knows him, by anyone that matters. Sam uses a hand at Castiel’s waist to suggest, to insinuate, and it takes very little encouragement really, for Castiel to groan into Sam’s mouth and grind his erection against Sam’s welcoming pelvis. Sam strokes down Castiel’s back, fingers digging in as they reach Castiel’s lower spine. He grunts when Castiel rocks into him forcefully, pushes beneath the waist of Castiel’s briefs and grabs his right buttock. Castiel bites Sam’s bottom lip. He feels Sam smile.

Realizing he has shut his eyes, Castiel opens them.

Sam is there, cheeks darker in what better light might reveal to be a blush. There is sweat on his upper brow and collecting in the hair follicles at his temples. He blinks slowly at Castiel as Castiel releases his bottom lip. Sam’s tongue peeks out, slowly licks the imprint of Castiel’s teeth. Oh. That’s nice. Castiel feels his heart twist unpleasantly as the cage he holds it in shrinks and pulses. It’s still not enough. Fixed on Sam’s face, watching for any hesitation where none is expected, Castiel touches the elastic of Sam’s ill fitting boxers. He tugs them down an inch on the side and grazes hot skin. 

Sam hums and spread his legs.

Castiel slides his fist under the waist, though the grain of pubic hair, and unfurls his fingers all at once. Sam jolts against him, eyes squeezed shut. Fuck. Castiel strokes him, root to tip. On some level, he catalogues the feel of Sam: the firmness of his erection, the slightly damp heat of it, the flare of the crown, slightly slippery. The rest of him is victorious. Possessive. This is his. Sam is lost by all appearances, head rocking as he braces his feet on the floor and thrusts up into the tunnel Castiel makes of his hand. This moment has always existed and always will now. Castiel is simply reaching out and taking it.

“Tell me how it feels,” Castiel demands. “Say you like it.”

“You like dirty talk, Cas?”

Castiel bends his wrist and tightens his hand. Sam whimpers, twitching. Ah, yes. Castiel knows what that feels like from experience. 

“It feels good,” Sam whispers. “So good.”

Castiel rotates his wrist, twisting up. Sam tosses his head.

“It feels,” Sam bites his lip, overwriting Castiel’s teeth marks with his own. “Like you know what you’re doing.”

“You’re surprised,” Castiel observes. He pulls his hand out and gets it wet with his tongue, then shoves it back under the cloth. “Do you think I’ve been celibate? I simply sit primly in bed and pray for salvation from my throbbing penis.”

Sam laughs, then seizes when Castiel jerks his hand.

“I was wrong,” Sam groans, pelvis thrusting. “You like sex. I apologize.”

“I like you,” Castiel says, jerking Sam quicker as he feels Sam’s thighs start to tremble. “You’re a mess, right now, for me. If I could put you on your back every day for the rest of time, I would not hesitate. It’s where you belong, Sam, isn’t it?” Castiel cannot help himself. He drops forward and grinds hard against Sam’s leg, just above his knee. The cotton of his briefs grates and catches deliciously. He‘s so turned on the fabric is wet. “You belong under me.” He flexes his hand. “I would keep you here.”

“Oh, fuck,” Sam grits. 

“Would you like that?”

He grinds into Sam’s leg, dick sticking to cotton. Sam trembles all over, clutching Castiel’s shoulders, his back. His mouth is open and wet. Castiel kisses it. Sam’s lips stay slack. He moans.

“Stay with me, Sam,” Castiel whispers. He’s going to come. “Stay exactly where you are.” 

“It’s so good, Cas,” he says. “I need this. I need this so much, please--”

Castiel hunches over him and it pierces, what rushes through him, it’s too much, Sam under him, begging, like every furtive day dream come to life, it cuts right in and lights him up. He climaxes, wrist going slack, the cotton of his underwear trapping every wet flex of his penis. He tries to say Sam’s name, but his jaw locks up as he shudders and huffs over Sam like an animal, sight unfocused. Sam groans when Castiel collapses and thrusts him to the side, onto his back. Sam climbs onto him, holds Castiel’s arms over his head and rubs his bare erection and ball sac over Castiel’s stomach until he groans and presses down hard, semen coating their skin, a warm rush of fluid that Castiel arches into.

They stay like that, panting, until their bodies stop shaking. Sam folds over him like wet blanket, and adjusts his weight so that the floor bears the brunt of it. Castiel stares at the motionless ceiling fan and thinks nothing at all, but somehow his hand comes up, lifts a strand of Sam’s sweaty hair off his cheek and tucks it behind his ear. Sam rumbles where his head is tucked into Castiel’s throat.

“How long have you been waiting to get your hands on my hair?”

“Oh, ages,” Castiel says. 

“Pervert,” Sam sighs happily. He scratches his prickly jaw against Castiel’s chest.

Castiel rubs Sam’s shoulder and starts counting the places where they are touching.

Stomach. Thighs. Knee. One elbow---

In the bedroom, twenty minutes later, Sam takes Castiel apart using his mouth. The sheet pulls free when Castiel grabs fistfuls of it, the elastic snapping in on them. Castiel lifts his head and stares down his shuddering abdomen. Sam pauses to flick hair out of his eyes with jerk of his chin and bends back down, lips already parted and wet. Castiel cries out as Sam laps across the red crown of his erection, whines and splashes semen in startled white bursts over Sam’s mouth and chin. Panting, Castiel reaches out and pushes a thumb through the mess then hooks it between Sam’s teeth, touching his tongue.

Sam licks at it, nose wrinkling slightly.

Castiel smiles and grimaces at the same time as another spike of lust guts him.

“It’s not enough,” Castiel says.

Sam groans and rolls onto his back, spreading his legs at Castiel’s urging. He tastes sharp and a bit like bleach. 

*

When Castiel next wakes, he’s on his stomach in his own bed and the room is bright red, the color of the thick curtains hung in his bedroom windows. Sam is curled in the fetal position, spine facing Castiel. Castiel blinks slowly. The cover is pulled up in Sam’s fist, tucked over one shoulder, but gaping behind him, leaving the mole speckled skin visible. Castiel scoots closer and kisses Sam’s right shoulder blade, feather-light. Sam flexes, the knobs of his spine shifting under his skin.

“Sam?”

A near silent gust of air answers him. Castiel inches against Sam until he can settle his nose into the nape of Sam’s neck, where it is hot and slightly damp. A curl of hair flutters when Castiel exhales and it tickles his cheek. As an angel, he’d be distracted by the cell structure under his mouth, the collision and repel of nature. Instead he gets to slide his palm over the swell of Sam’s naked hip under the blanket, note the grain of Sam’s skin where his waist dips in. He delights in unveiling a ridge of puffy scar tissue on the ladder of Sam’s ribs, the texture of which is a peculiar mixture of silk and rivets.

Sam sighs deeply and rubs his legs together. Castiel drags his big toe down the back of Sam’s hairy calf muscle. He lifts his head and leans over Sam’s prone body to glimpse his sleeping face. Sam’s mouth is lax, tongue faintly visible between slightly parted teeth. His bangs have fallen away from his eyes onto the pillow, leaving his forehead visible and smooth. The groove of concentrated thought that usually resides between his eyebrows is only a faint wrinkle of leftover concern.

Castiel pulls away silently. The mattress dips and rebounds as he leaves the bed, but Sam only digs his face into the pillow and rolls onto his stomach, blanket still trapped in one fist. Peach jumps on the bed soundlessly while Castiel puts on a pair of clean boxers and a t-shirt. She stretches out beside Sam, her tail flopping without urgency. She whuffles lazily and goes still, head positioned in the perfect vantage point in which to observe their favorite human. 

In the kitchen, the two remaining dogs are in a pile by the door. Roxie lifts her head, one ear perking up. Her tongue drops out the side of her open mouth. It’s unusual for her to be so chipper. Maybe she recognizes the fault line under them. Or maybe Castiel is projecting.

Castiel fills their food dish and refreshes their water. Roxie leaves Sarah passed out in a puddle of her own drool and stretches next to the dish, makes the strange whistling yawn that she always does, nails clacking on the hardwood floor. For the people in the house, Castiel fills the coffee pot with tap water and grinds enough coffee beans for a full a pot. Light and shadow dapples the kitchen wall as Castiel gathers the pieces of breakfast from the pantry and refrigerator. Sarah wakes up enough to roll onto her back so that she can take full advantage of the rug her companion left behind.

One day left.

As he scrambles the eggs on low heat while bacon crackles in a pan on the other burner, Castiel loses himself in the repetitive motion of the spatula circling. He circles a little himself. He considers, as he often does, telling Sam that he loves him, then disregards the foolish notion, sets it aside, puts it in an unmarked envelope in his belly. All his communication skills come rubber stamped by the Winchester brand. Sam would take this love and set it on fire. 

Castiel flips the bacon so that at least it is evenly crisped. 

Empathy is unsettling. Poor little pig.

Fat snaps out and bites his wrist. 

Castiel cusses and drops the spatula, lifting his arm to inspect the blister. Roxie wanders past him sedately, avoiding the back of his legs as she passes. He wishes she liked him a little more. 

*

Castiel attempts to rouse Sam by running the coffee under his nose, but apparently that Folgers commercial was based on a lie. Instead, Castiel sets the mug down on the bedside table and straddles Sam’s thighs. He drops down on top of him all at once. Sam grunts at the onset of weight and opens one eye, pinning Castiel with it narrowly. Peach, the clever little thing, hops off the bed with an annoyed yip and clacks out of the room, likely smelling the bacon.

“You’re cheerful,” Sam grumbles

Castiel grins in his face.

“We slept for, like, three hours,” Sam moans, clutching the pillow and turning to dig his face back into it. “Unless you want to romantic morning sex me, go away. Actually, no, just go away.”

“You can sleep when you’re dead,” Castiel says. “Oh, and did I mention the coffee?”

Sam sits up and topples Castiel off his back.

“Where?” he asks, accusingly.

Castiel stares at his messy hair and thin eyes and patchy beard growth. He hands Sam the coffee silently and Sam takes it with both hands, long fingers swallowing the mug. His eyelids slide closed at the first sip. His lips peak into a satisfied curl.

“I love you,” Castiel says. 

Sam barely reacts. His eyelids flutter, pink with exhaustion.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yeah.” Sam sips the hot liquid. “I didn’t think you would tell me. Even after last night.”

“You knew.”

All the times Castiel slept alone, knowing that something was missing. Aching for companionship. Knowing what made sense. Sam stayed down the hall. Or a world away.

What an asshole.

“Castiel. You relocated your life here---and no offense, there is absolutely nothing going for you here, you’re basically an outcast---on the off chance that I show up for a little while each year. Sometimes you snuggle with me on the couch. Either you feel guilty for my little problem, which would be stupid, or you love me. I don’t think you’re stupid.”

Castiel plucks Sam’s coffee mug out of his grasp. Sam lets his hands drop into his lap.

“It obviously isn’t going anywhere,” Sam says. “I didn’t want to make it worse for you.”

“Until last night.”

“I asked you if you would be ok. You said you would.”

“I said I would be fine,” Castiel states flatly. “You know what that means.”

Sam lowers his eyes, eyebrows drawing together. 

“I wanted you,” he says, staring at his hands picking at each other. “I was selfish.”

“Good for you, Sam,” Castiel says, getting up. “Remember you asked me first.”

He thinks about breakfast on the table, two plates set up across from each other, bacon and eggs mashed between rye toast and thick slices of cheddar, the glass pitcher of orange juice. The rough impersonation of a heart symbol he made out of the spare pieces of bacon. He tugs the blanket away from Sam’s lap and pulls Sam flat to the bed with a yank on his ankle. 

The higher the sun climbs, the brighter red the room burns.

Sex leaves Castiel vaguely bruised; genitals raw, thighs sore.

His outside finally matches his inside.

They eat breakfast on the porch. It’s cold, but Sam doesn’t say anything. He eats like he always does now. Every bite is an experience. He’s in a pair of jeans worn so thin at the thighs that Castiel is tempted catch his nail on the butt crease and rip it open.

“You want to go into town?” Castiel asks, by the railing, staring out.

He hears Sam finish chewing. Then swallow.

“If you want,” Sam answers. “I’m yours today.”

Today.

 

**(Past)**

In 2016, the world is safe from the darkness. Sam is dead. Dean is out of contact. Claire is building a life for herself somewhere far from harm.

Castiel is human for the second time. Wonderful.

Summer lapses in Chicago, but the smell doesn’t. It lingers on the rank spectrum somewhere between trash and fish, clings to skin and hair and gets trapped beneath fingernails. Castiel wears all the clothes he owns layered over himself even on the hottest days, filling out his skinny body with ripped tanks and discarded band t-shirts. It’s easier than carrying them from one hole in the wall to the next and protects him from being targeted. He carries the stench like another set of clothes. More protection. People tend to look around him, or through him, but never at him.

At one of the few remaining telephone booths, he calls Claire. She doesn’t pick up and the call goes straight to voicemail. That’s alright. He still gets to hear her voice.

A trend gains speed on Pinterest. People begin carrying freezer bags filled with toothpaste, hand soap, protein bars, and other basic essentials. Castiel receives these bags roughly twice a week, on average. He takes what he needs and hands out the rest. He doesn’t need very much. Is this the world we saved, he wonders. Some people own islands. Many more depend on freezer bags gifted by strangers. 

What was the point, Sam? 

A woman visits his alley late one afternoon and hands him a pamphlet. Her hair is braided on the sides and long in back, roughly the same style Claire preferred.

“There’s help,” she tells him, speaking to his shoes. “For whatever it is, there is always help.”

But there isn’t. Not for him. 

“I’m a unique case,” he tells her, sternly. Maybe that’s pride. He hands the pamphlet back to her. “There’s a meth lab around the corner. Give this to one of them.”

If he felt motivated enough, he could explain to any one of the kind hearted urban missionaries or straggling oh-so-wise pedestrians on lunch break, that yes, he’s capable and able-bodied. He could work. He could make a life for himself. He doesn’t want to. Go away.

Instead, he survives. It’s his choice what that looks like.

Castiel spends a lot of time seated like a limbless amoeba by the lake. There is a bench there covered in so much spray paint that it looks more like art than vandalism. Castiel sits there for hours, watching boats travel the polluted water. He trims his nails. He reads books. He whispers to himself in Enochian. No one looks for him. No angel. No man. He’s cut off. Adrift on his bench. He digs through the trash cans along the walkway and trims his nails again, short enough to sting. Sometimes he falls asleep there and wakes up when a runner zooms past, his heart pounding like he is being chased.

Dim grief warbles in every swinging yellow light bulb in his life. Misery hungers at him in the reflection of his skinny body when he bathes in bathroom sinks, combs through his body hair for nits. He drags his hands across his shoulder blades obsessively, searching. An itch, yes, right there. 

He’s not an angel. He’s not a brother or a father or a son. He’s not even a friend.

Sam took all of that away. He didn’t even say please.

“Go away,” he barks at a red headed boy handing him an apple. The kid jumps a solid two feet in the air, drops the apple, and is running before the fruit hits the ground.

“I’m going crazy,” he confesses to a bird. “Rowena got her wish.”

The bird pecks at dried dog shit before it bounces away chirping. When it takes flight, awkward and darting, the envy of flight crystallizes and shatters. That isn’t what he wants. Something leaves him lost in the crowd. He wants a choice. Castiel parks himself beside a trash can and waits for dinner. 

In late August, an old woman befriends Castiel over a shared meal in a church basement. He secures the friendship by spooning his mashed potatoes onto her plate when it becomes clear she doesn’t have the teethe to properly chew the plastic burger. She doesn’t thank him, or say even a single word, but follows him out of the church to an unused bus stop, where she curls up on the bench as Castiel leans against the plastic wall, fighting the pull of sleep.

She’s alive because of Sam. She can suffer another day because Dean let Sam do it.

The only reason she’s here at all is because Castiel didn’t know Sam would die.

In a way, Castiel is responsible for her.

She continues to follow him for the next week, a reminder of the betrayal dressed in heavy patched skirts and a grimy cashmere sweater. Castiel doesn’t ask her name or why she is alone on the street. If she has a family. He procures a comb out of a discarded box marked free and it’s her favorite new trinket. She grins at him with her blackened gums and holds the comb in the air like it is a diamond ring that can capture the sun, waving it at everyone who passes. Castiel envies the ignorance of her mental illness. His own is not quite so kind.

She takes the comb out of her grocery bag every hour or so and plucks the straggling gray hairs with it until her hair is very nearly fluffy, floating like a rain cloud in the wind. She hums as she dance-walks past the cracks in the pavement. If she steps on one, she cries. Castiel discovers that the only way to calm her down is to hum the same tune he always hears from her. If the song exists outside of her own head, he doesn’t care to find out. He starts thinking of her as Charlie. It’s her eyes.

Like her namesake, this Charlie only wants to laugh.

Castiel trips over himself to make her smile. It’s a purpose greater than any that has been left to him so far. Trash cans aren’t safe from him. Sidewalks become sideshows. He gets himself smacked by a drag queen just so he can steal her feather boa. It’s the perfect prop for an impromptu dance. Charlie laughs until she gives herself hiccups, her clumpy mascara melting down her cheeks. She uses a store window to reapply the mascara with gnarled fingers, and it’s so sticky and thick that she ends up in a constant state of winking for the rest of the day. Castiel still lets her do his eyelashes when she threatens him with the black residue remaining on the wand.

It’s no surprise when Charlie leaves him.

Castiel wakes one morning and she’s gone, as wordless as she found him. Castiel sits up and stares at the bundle of flattened cardboard he’d left her dreaming in the night before. A whole world of opportunity opens up under the narrow blue spaces where the sky isn’t crowded out by glass and steel. He wanders the streets alone. No more hums or giggles. Blank faces reflect at him for mere seconds, strange shoulders thumping into him as he turns, and turns, fighting the stream of bodies.

He doesn’t look for her.

His feet carry him to the nearest church.

Cardboard binds the two front windows and shattered glass in vivid hues lingers on the cement steps outside the doors. Castiel pulls the wooden door open with the meager strength left in his hungry body, and it creaks resentfully, echoing inward toward the darkened heart of the church. He breathes in deeply as the door thumps closed behind him, snapping the sunlight off the floor. The scent of candle wax and old books resolve into an after image: Dean drops a plate of candy in front of Sam. That’s dinner. Sam looks up from the pathetic fare, simply looks up, and wins the argument.

Polished wooden pews line the aisle, lead to a raised stage where tea lights in glass votives flicker under the bleeding feet of Jesus on the cross. Castiel sits near the back. He wipes his damp palms on the fabric of his dirty jeans and wets his lips. One other person occupies the room, and she is a vapor of a person, dressed completely in shades of black and swaying in front of a candle as she lights it. It’s so quiet, Castiel is afraid to swallow. Jesus glows where he suffers, pointed rays of light capturing the agony of nails piercing his ceramic skin.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Castiel starts, just above a whisper. “I wouldn’t have come, if there was a better option. My choices are limited. As usual.”

Castiel leans forward and places his elbows on his thighs, clasping his hands together. He drops his chin and shuts his eyes. He starts to speak, then stops. Starts again.

“I need help,” Castiel says eventually. 

He frowns at his own word choice. He expects the roof to cave at any moment.

“I know you’re done. Trust me, I realize what a gift it is that you stepped in to fight the darkness when you gave up on us so long ago.” Castiel opens his eyes to see his bony fingers pull at each other, the bulge of his scabbed knuckles reshaping his skin. “I know I’m supposed to live on. I survived, after all. My grace is gone, but my consciousness extends beyond that. You’ve granted me a soul. What more could I possibly ask from you?”

When Castiel lifts his head, the ghostly woman kneels at the alter.

She whispers in Portuguese.

“I’ve thought I might throw myself off a bridge. Or, I could buy a gun.”

Jesus stares eternally down and to the left of him.

“I’m not sure why I’m still alive,” Castiel admits. “I can’t commit the energy to suicide, maybe. I’m not sure what would happen to my soul. Would Crowley put it on a rack? I can’t stomach the idea of going to heaven and seeing those smug bastards lock me away to fade into my memories. They don’t deserve the satisfaction. I failed them. I don’t care anymore. I miss my friends.”

The woman rises from her prayer and walks unsteadily to the front pew, where she slumps. Castiel directs his attention upwards, where the wooden beams are rapt with sunshine and a bird takes flight, dropping dust like it is shedding pieces of gold.

“If I could ask just one more thing,” Castiel says. “Sam Winchester. Give him back.”

Dust motes float by his nose, shimmering in silence. 

“That’s what I thought you’d say,” Castiel says. He swallows with difficulty, a metallic collection of emotions clogging his throat. “I understand that he made a deal with you. He was a good man. The world is lesser without him in it, I know you can see that. He is my first thought when I wake up. His sacrifice. My part in it. I never stopped trying to make up for what I put him through. He needed my help to save the world, to be the hero, so I gave it. I didn’t ask enough questions. He only had to look directly at me, into my eyes, and I was his puppet. ”

Castiel hears it again: the wet squelch, the gush of Sam’s last breath. Rust in the air.

“I killed him. He chose it and you made me. It was all designed.”

Castiel covers his face and digs his fingers into his forehead.

“You were so warm inside me. Heroin doesn’t do you justice. Killing him was nearly a treasure. I could have done it forever. I was made of light. I carried him up the mountain high on your love.”

Castiel collapses further inward, clenching as the memory unwinds.

At the top of the mountain, Sam’s weight, no more tremendous than that of a feather. His legs and arms dangled like those of a child being rocked to sleep. He held Sam for a long time in the cold, thin air, while blood soaked his front. Sam’s blind eyes stared at the sky and Castiel followed his gaze, dim and mercifully emotionless, as the darkness drained from the world. He remembers the rumble of the ground beneath his feet, the bucking of the earth, an animal trying to throw him off. It was starving and alone. It didn’t want to go away again.

He gently placed Sam on the wet ground, and---

“I brushed his hair away from his face. Even then, an element under your guidance, I needed to see his face. I couldn’t feel what it meant, then. That came later.”

Sam’s face fills his field of vision, as still and void as it was that night.

“I can’t hate you,” Castiel says. “I was engineered to love you. I have no choice in that either. I need you to tell me what to do now. There has to be an end to this.” He grabs at his own heart like he is capable of clawing it out. “I miss him too much.”

The door groans open. Castiel jerks straight and looks over his shoulder. A stumpy man in a wrinkled suit limps by to lower himself awkwardly at alter. He crosses his chest with one hand while the other trembles on the cane supporting him. Castiel sees himself in him, forty years from now. No one is listening to him then either. Castiel fades backward and spreads his legs wide, slouching. 

“You must think I’m a child,” he tells his father. “So be it.”

He goes quiet. Castiel’s future self climbs to his feet, leaning heavily on the cane. He pivots to take a seat parallel to the woman. From here, Castiel cannot see his desperate face, but he can read it in the wrinkle of his collared shirt, the dull glint of the unpolished wedding ring. Castiel remains in the church for the entire afternoon, watching people cycle in and out, kneel before the alter and make requests inside their own hearts, tremblingly afraid to voice what they want. 

Every single one of them lives their misery because Castiel goes where Sam sends him.

Castiel pulls out the envelope of memory that he abhors the most. He rips it open and sticks his fingers inside to feel the wet and bloody shape writhing inside.

There he is, kneeling at Sam’s side. Standing then, jerkily, like a child ripped from his mother’s arms. There he is, becoming. God in him. Light is sculpted between his hands and burns in his eyes. He blows into Sam’s soul like it is melted glass, shaping it into the lock that will hold the darkness away. He sees himself feeling nothing because emotional attachment is not necessary and would, in fact, be excessively cruel. If only the marionette master had shut his eyes then. If only.

When it is done, Castiel sees himself frozen as a crevice opens beneath Sam’s motionless body. Earth crumbles softly away like the finest powders, then reaches up, hugging Sam in wet dirt until his lifeless body is gone. Sam could have been an insect or a city. He is part of something bigger. Grass sprouts after Sam sinks and bleeds through the soil, followed by a single daffodil that uncoils and blossoms with a mocking, teasing beauty.

Dawn glimmers over the wet, new grass, and the false light of the magic vanishes into fog, and Castiel sees his own knees give way. He lands in the dirt where Sam vanished and retches.

In the present, Castiel shoves the memories back in the envelope. They struggle and nip, clinging with moist talons. He stands as a pair of women support each other down the aisle, waits for them to pass, before he wipes the sweat off the back of his neck and approaches the alter himself. He lifts a votive candle and touches its wick to three others: one for Sam, one for Dean, and then, candle wax dripping down and making the flame lash out, a candle for himself. He replaces the candle and steps back without kneeling, stuffing his fisted hands in the front pouch of his hooded sweatshirt. He flicks a look at the darker corners of the church. He’s alone now.

“When you left me last, you took my grace.”

Castiel’s voice grates, crackling between syllables. 

“You can keep it.” Castiel shrugs. He has so little to offer. “Take my soul if it I suits you. Take my life, whatever it is. I want Sam back or I’ll make it hard for you. I’ll undo all your careful work. Let Lucifer and Michael out to play. Consider this an opportunity.”

Castiel stares hard at his own candle until the flame blurs and twins. He feels his face grow fixed and cold. He jolts when the heavy church door groans open again. Whether from a spiral of street air, or as a response from his father, Castiel’s flame twitches out. Smoke curls from the burnt wick. As far as signs go, Castiel has received less, so he flips his hood up and nods respectfully to the man on the cross.

“I’m done,” he says, with a half wave. “Thank you for listening. Oh, and that time you died for my sins. I didn’t realize I would reap the benefits. I’m sorry for mocking you with the other angels.”

It’s dark when he stomps down the church steps. Street lamps hum in welcome as he passes under them. Castiel takes a spin around a pole, grinning up at the flickering light bulb.

Come on, he thinks, his thoughts an odd echo of Dean. Do me a solid, old man.

*

Castiel sleeps in a shelter for the first time in several months. When he wakes, it’s still dark outside but restlessness snakes inside of his chest, rattles its tail in his gullet. He jams his few possessions into a duffel and slips out the back door, into the alley behind the building.

He chooses a rusty orange Volkswagen Beetle because he finds the mismatched hubcaps appealing. Picking the lock without the aid of heavenly powers proves the hardest part. After he is finally in the driver seat, a slotted screwdriver is all that is required to get him on the road.

On the way out of a town, Castiel passes a shirtless bearded man standing outside an underpass holding up a greasy pizza box stricken with black marker: GOD IS MERCIFUL.

Castiel smirks a little and changes gears.

With a little ingenious pick pocketing, it takes roughly thirty two hours to bridge the twelve hundred mile whim. Just outside of town, he stops at a rest stop and calls Dean.

“It’s Cas,” he says to the voicemail, then dead air. Tell him about Sam. Tell him your instincts. Dean let Sam die. Dean walked away first. Tell him he has another chance. “I thought you should know. I left Chicago. I’ll call when I can. Don’t worry.”

Castiel stares at his hand on the phone after he hangs up.

He puts himself together in the public bathroom where the graffiti game is impressive. Shirtless, he scrubs at his upper half with a bar of soap and dries off with recycled paper towels that spit out of the machine one hesitant square at a time. The beard goes painfully with a disposable razor. The hair will have to stay because Castiel doesn’t even know where to begin with all of … that… on his head. He rinses it in the sink and slicks it off his forehead. The way it curls tucked behind his ears reminds him of Sam, bent over a book in the bunker library, twitchy and over stimulated by coffee.

Measuring himself in the mirror, Castiel half wishes for a trench coat.

Castiel fills the gas tank a final time, and finishes the drive.

It’s after seven when he arrives in Surrender, Maine. NPR predicts rain. The hush of waves balloon through the open windows. A few cars are parked in front of the stores that have been built inside of homes and there are no parking meters. A single light sways in the night breeze at the lone intersection, blinking yellow for caution. A woman lifts a hand from her steering wheel as she and Castiel converge on the narrow road, waves at him to go first. Castiel blinks at her and guns it before she changes her mind. 

In the near distance, the Atlantic Ocean consumes the horizon. As big as the sky and as cold as space, it glows with false warmth in the fading sunlight. It should capture his full attention, but Castiel leans forward on the steering wheel, mouth gaping as he stares at the mountain that breaches the trees and shoulders into the red sky, green everywhere but near the top, where slate rocks have collected in a rough configuration of a human face. Birds crest the peak, flocking between ancient trees.

Sam died here. 

Castiel eases the squeaking car down a rutted dirt road without streetlights. Night comes sooner in the forest as the trees quickly become dense around the car, low hanging branches grasping and scraping metal. He pulls off into the first break in the woods that he spots, yanks the emergency break up, puts his seat back, and passes out. He dreams that he is as big as an adult pine tree and engulfed in painless fire. His face collapses into tinder.

*

It rains.

Just after dawn, Castiel constructs a lean-to using dead branches from the forest floor. He scavenges the trunk of the Volkswagen and scores a blue tarp to drape over the structure. A kernel of guilt begins to swell in his gut, but he shivers it out and crushes it under his boot heel as he twists over the branches, securing the tarp to damp wood. He huddles under the structure on his muddy duffel bag and tucks his hands into his arm pits for warmth. A film of sticky air settles beneath his clothes. 

Castiel waits outside the clearing in near stillness, eyes shelled open. Not far from here, Sam is a part of the earth, living with the worms. Fat worms, with wriggling, overstuffed bellies. Castiel scrubs the butt of his palms into his eye sockets so hard he sees stars.

Even in the rain, the ritual spot is easily recognizable. There is a slate rock too big to move at the edge of the trees, where the walking path leads to the peak, and it sticks out of the ground like a bone pierces flesh. There is a dark stain on the rock’s surface. Sam arranged the candles there, before holding Castiel’s face still so that he could press hot wax between Castiel’s eyebrows.

By close to noon, the rain hasn’t tapered off. It continues to leach all but the dampest colors out of the day with tremendous patience. Castiel eats cold ravioli straight from the can, slurping bits of pasta off a plastic spoon. He reads the ingredients on the back of the label and frowns when he notices the expiration date. He shrugs and takes another bite. That explains the copper flavor.

Time passes. Seconds and minutes and hours. He rocks himself through sneezing fits. He thinks about being alone with Sam. He considers and discards a hundred sentiments he wants to share. He’ll hit Sam first, he thinks. Once that’s done, Castiel will hug him. A frog occupies three minutes of his time as it lumbers through the grass, lumpy back wobbling in and out of sight.

After a while, Castiel considers the wisdom of projecting his hearts desire onto a candle. In answer, lightning jumps out of the ground a mile away and rips into the sky. Black clouds spread and part above the trees like a pair of enormous wings.

“Subtle,” Castiel grumbles and sinks deeper into his own arms.

He’s nearly nodded off to the relentless sound of raindrops hitting the tarp when a stray splash of water breaks the arrangement of sound, followed by a deep throated grunt. Castiel’s attention catches and clings wetly to the disruption. A pattern of sound emerges to his right ear drum: slap, splash, drag. Someone approaches sluggishly over uneven terrain. They’re struggling. The entire right side of Castiel’s body dries out and stings, and his eyes bulge.

It can’t be.

If it isn’t---

Inhaling, Castiel ducks out from under the security of the tarp. He’s drenched instantly despite the low hanging tree branches. The flood of water blinds him. He mops his face with his equally wet shirt sleeve and holds his hair out of his eyes to peer through the sheets of rain.

Castiel sways. His heart rebounds. 

Recognizable in a firestorm, six feet and four inches of Sam Winchester blur in Castiel’s direction. Castiel raises his hands, fingers curling as if Sam is close enough to grab. Sam limps half heartedly, chin to his chest, hair plastered to the sides of his face. No visible decay. He wears the t-shirt he died in, and it’s so soaked that new water slides right off him. There’s a bloody hole in the cotton where he was stabbed in the heart. It gapes and slaps against his unblemished skin with every careful step.

“Sam,” Castiel says hoarsely. He can’t hear himself.

Sam pushes on, gripping the meat of his right arm so tightly that his fingertips are white. 

The way this normally plays out, Dean would be here. He’d tumble Sam to the ground and cut him to make sure he’s still pure. He’d laugh and hug Sam and they’d take their show on the road. As simple as that, and as sure. Saving people, hunting things. The family business. Dean isn’t here. Castiel’s left knee turns to ash and buckles. He stumbles forward to catch himself and splashes into a puddle. Sam jolts and falters a step, nearly tripping over the hang of his heavy blue jeans. 

“It’s me,” Castiel says when Sam lifts his head, water dripping down the bridge of his nose. Castiel puts his hands out, palms first. “It’s okay. Don’t be scared.”

Sam’s blue lips tremble apart and his chin wobbles. He shifts backward, like he might run.

“It’s me,” Castiel repeats, shaking his head no. No. Don’t run. “This is real. You’re here.”

Castiel inches forward, arms still raised. Sam’s dim gaze sharpens.

“C-Cas,” Sam says. “W-what the f-fuck.”

Hope snaps its tourniquet violently. 

“Yes,” Castiel says, grinning like a mad man. “That’s me. I’m Cas. You remember.”

On legs that barely function, he makes it to Sam without the other man running off like a startled deer. Sam, for his part, shakes apart while he waits, like one more step might shatter him. The closer Castiel gets, the bluer Sam appears, the veins under his skin huge and hungry for warmth. When he can, when there is only a foot between them, Castiel reaches out with one hand and grasps Sam’s shoulder. It’s a miracle he doesn’t throw up on the spot. He feels no urge to throw a punch.

“I can’t believe you’re real,” Castiel says, watching his fingers compress Sam’s arm muscle. He can feel the burning in his eyes when he lifts his gaze to Sam’s. “You came back. You’re here, Sam.”

Sam blinks slowly, cheek twitching. 

“I shouldn’t be here,” he says, void of resonance. “What happened, Cas?”

“It’s a gift,” Castiel says, and his cheeks ache from his feverous smile. “From my father.”

Sam frowns, but barely. It’s an echo of his usual disapproval.

“I think. It won’t--” Sam looks over Castiel’s shoulder and blanches. He tilts sideways. “Cas, I’m cold.”

Castiel rubs Sam’s shoulder compulsively, wondering at Sam’s irrefutable flesh. He is freezing, actually. Hypothermia could easily put him back in the ground.

“I have a car down the road with some towels in it. If you can make it there, I can get us to a motel and get you warmed up. Can you do that, Sam?” Blankness. “You hear me in there?”

Sam nods weakly. He looks around one more time, and Castiel wonders if he is remembering that night, how tightly he gripped Castiel while a ceremonial sword eviscerated him. Like a lover. At last, his eyes settle on Castiel and he lifts his arm in question. Castiel steps under it, feels the heft of it settle over his shoulders and wraps his own around Sam’s back. Sam leans into him. Goosebumps spiral outward everywhere they touch under Castiel’s wet clothes.

Castiel grunts and drags Sam over muddy ground, one lurching step at a time. It’s the first time Sam has ever felt as heavy as he looks. If Sam notices Castiel struggling under his weight, he doesn’t show it. He drifts unsteadily forward, head drooping. It’s up to Castiel to keep him from dropping off the side of the world. Eventually, huffing with effort, Castiel gets them both to the car hidden in the trees. He props Sam against the car, half pressed to the front of Sam’s body to hold him there. In another situation, Sam’s sharp hipbone against his own would be impossible to ignore.

“Sorry,” Castiel says, close to Sam’s chin. “Almost there.”

With one hand, he gets the door open and pushes Sam gently inside. The other cradles the back of Sam’s skull to keep him from hitting it on the frame. Sam struggles to lift his frozen legs into the foot well and then collapses, chest lifting in rapid bursts. Castiel tugs a towel from behind the seat and scrubs it first over Sam’s hair, drying it roughly, then wiping down his shoulders and his front. Sam goes where Castiel puts him. He stays completely silent, eyes on his own lap. It isn’t until Castiel dabs the towel gently over the side of his face that he moves on his own again, lifting his head.

Sam’s eyes are as green and wet as the forest behind him.

Castiel exhales. He can’t stop himself from trailing his thumb over the softly warming skin by Sam’s flat, expressionless mouth. Water still beats down on his back, but it feels farther away.

“I was dead, wasn’t I?” Sam asks evenly. “It worked.”

Castiel has a flash of the dirt reaching out for Sam’s limp body. He flinches and covers it by draping the towel around Sam’s shoulders.

“You saved us,” he agrees, tucking the ends under Sam’s chin. “All of us.”

It wasn’t worth it.

Sam peers up at Castiel as he stands between Sam and the car door, getting rained on. It’s visible the exact moment the manipulative light turns on behind Sam’s eyes. Wicked intelligence fills him out, puts the stuffing back into his body, lines the subcutaneous layer of self and makes him unreachable.

“Thanks for picking me up,” Sam says, casually, and stretches with a yawn so wide his tonsils show. After, he scoots down into the leather, hugging the towel around himself like a blanket. He looks forward, through the leaf obscured windshield, and smiles to himself. “Let’s get out of here.”

*

There are conditions to Sam’s return apparently. Sam knows them instinctively as if he’s been reborn with the fine print clauses on the insides of his eyelids. No Dean. No leaving the area. No Thai food. It’s possible that Sam is bluffing about that last rule. Castiel isn’t attached enough to Thai food to test his theory. Goodbye, Khao phat.

Surrender, Maine boasts only one motel, and it’s a themed one.

Castiel hates the themed ones.

“You don’t have to stay,” Sam tells him, fondling the room’s seashell phone to figure out where the ear piece is. “I’m fine now. I have credit cards. I can figure out the rest from here.”

Of course you can, Castiel thinks. I can’t.

“Don’t be a martyr,” Castiel says. “I want actual meat on that pizza, Sam, and no, black olives do not count as a meat, I don‘t care how salty they are.”

Sam buys him a trench coat. It’s darker than its predecessor, the color of a slate rock, but it fits like a suit of armor. Castiel has to talk himself out of wearing it to sleep. He begins to recognize his own face in the mirror within days. He smiles and it hardly pinches. Sam’s voice grates in the forefront of his life instead of his memory like an alarm sounding at him, pulling him awake at the bottom of a deep well. Humans are not meant to be alone. It’s unnatural.

“Really no Thai?” Castiel asks.

Sam scrubs a towel over his wet hair. “Definitely not.”

The motel room begins to look like home. Books and DVDs take up space on the two queen mattresses. Clothes and used towels are draped over chairs. Sam does sit ups between the two beds in his boxer shorts, and Castiel takes very long, very cold showers. Housekeeping grows to hate them for their towel consumption. They stop stocking the coffee bar. Castiel wakes one morning without tension in his back and it’s only then that he realizes he’s been walking around with his shoulders to his ears.

Sam eyes him upside down where he’s sprawled on the bed reading.

“What?”

“Dunno,” Sam says. He turns a page and looks away. “You look like you slept for once.”

Castiel shrugs and pulls on his jeans.

Time, the pushover that it is, flashes by and doesn’t move all at once. Every day goes much the same: they wake up, argue about whose turn it is to make coffee, eat breakfast at Tim’s diner, visit a few shops in town, pick up something for lunch and return to the motel. On warmer days, they laze around by the pool. It’s no way to live in the long term, Castiel knows. They don’t talk about the future. They don’t talk about Dean or that Castiel has been living on the streets for a year and sometimes can’t stop himself from peeking into the trash cans they pass for wasted treasure. They definitely don’t talk about the way Sam sometimes fumbles tying his shoelaces, as if his fingers don’t quite remember how.

Two weeks in, and Sam startles awake in the middle of the night, screaming and fighting the blankets like they are trying to strangle him. Castiel snaps straight out of REM and stumbles across the space between their beds, shaking from the jolt of adrenalin. He grabs Sam by the knee and the chest, presses down but Sam keeps fighting with the blankets, nearly hyperventilating. Someone pounds on the wall by their heads and shouts muffled threats. Castiel kneels on the bed and grabs Sam by his ears, forcing his head around. Sam pants, tears leaking down his temples.

“What is it?” Castiel whispers,

Sam shakes his head and bites his lip. Castiel strokes his hair.

“I’m right here,” Castiel says. “I’m not going anywhere. Go back to sleep.” 

Sam whimpers and reaches out, wrapping his warm arms around Castiel’s naked back and dragging him in. They kick the blankets off the bed and Castiel presses their foreheads together as Sam settles down. He slows his breathing in a calculated way, one exhale at a time, and thoughtlessly curls his fingers around Castiel’s hip, bunching the fabric of his briefs. Sweat builds between their bodies. Castiel feels no hint of arousal, despite the acres of flesh vulnerable to him. Instead, he’s overcome by the need to curl around Sam. Restrain him. Protect him. Sam slackens in his arms, relaxes back into whatever nightmares will accept him, and Castiel compulsively strokes his hair, rubs it between the pads on his fingers, until he falls asleep himself. Sam brings him coffee the next morning, without argument.

“You know it’s not for good, right?” Sam asks two days later, mouth full.

Castiel puts his burger down. Sam opens his mouth and drops another fry in.

“I’m dead, right? I’m here, but it’s not permanent. It’s like---earned personal days.”

The waitress walks by just then, quick like she doesn’t want to be noticed, but pulls abruptly short when her eyes land on Castiel’s face. Her sneakers squeak when she stops.

“Oh, honey, did they leave that burger too raw for you again?” Allison snatches up his plate and plucks the bun off the patty to grimace at it. “I’m gonna throw it at his head! Let me fix it, and I promise I’ll make sure Johnny doesn’t spit in it this time.”

Sam stares out the window. The rain on it trickles shadows across his cheeks. 

“Let’s not be sad,” he says, lips pitching into a smile. “We have a week left at least. It’s a lot more than I thought I would get and I’m pretty sure I have you to thank for that.”

Castiel’s ears buzz. Far away, he hears silver scraping over plates, the clatter of the kitchen.

“I’m sorry for keeping it from you,” Sam says quietly, a mile away, and finally looks straight at Castiel, and yes, he does appear sorry. Sam is always sorry. “You seemed better off.”

“Don’t say another word,” he hears himself say. “Not another word, Sam.”

Allison returns with a fresh plate, and a chocolate milkshake topped by two maraschino cherries.

“Something sweet for a sweetie,” she says, winking.

Castiel smiles back at her, a faulty sick thing that hides the rupture behind his eyes. He must be getting good at imitating a sane person, because she clasps her hands together in front of her apron and stays to talk with them for a good five minutes, and he learns the names of her three boys.

They could have been happy, he keeps thinking. It isn’t fair.

A week later finds Castiel alone. He doesn’t follow Sam or make a scene. They hug goodbye and Castiel barely feels the arms around him. Nothing registers. He goes to sleep after Sam leaves, with assistance from a bottle of vodka and a few too many benadryl tablets, and doesn’t rouse again until the housekeeper knocks on the door a good thirty hours later. He goes out so that she can change the sheets and eats by himself at Tim’s Diner for the first time, methodically working through a plate of pancakes. He echoes their normal routine: visits the book store, stops to do his laundry, eats enough to survive. He calls Claire to listen to her voicemail.

Sam is dead again. Just like that. 

The gift is actually a curse.

The earth keeps turning. The darkness stays imprisoned. Castiel is insignificant. Whatever grief he feels, it’s too vast to really experience, like trying to count the trees in the forest when you are standing in the middle of it. It’s a few weeks before Castiel realizes that he’s not going anywhere. This is going to be his life. He’s going to hunker down like a good little soldier and wait. Ooh Rah.

Since Castiel can’t blend in by sleeping in the streets here, he hides another way.

He gets a job. 

 

**(Present)**

They take the truck into town instead of walking. Sam buckles the seat belt and Castiel side-eyes the motion, the way Sam secures the strap across his chest.

“What?” Sam asks.

Castiel smirks on the side of his mouth that Sam can’t see and starts the engine with a kick of the clutch. Sam spins through the few stations that come in on the radio as they travel down the bumpy dirt road, and settles on something Dean would listen to. Maybe he misses his brother. Castiel’s second hand drifts off the wheel as he relaxes into the seat. Both windows are down and a gentle breeze tugs at their hair. Sam stretches out with his arm along the door and he taps a rhythm on the plastic interior. The digital clock on the dashboard blinks through the seconds.

Castiel waits his turn at the single intersection for two vehicles to pass. At this time of day, everyone is either out on the boats, working in the school, or at home tending to chores. Still, a few people are on the sidewalks. They wave as Castiel drives by. Castiel looks pointedly at Sam after this happens for the second time. See? Not an outcast. Sam rolls his eyes.

He parks outside the pharmacy and hops down from the truck. Sam climbs out with less difficulty, and the two men sitting on the bench outside Rite Aid look at each other and nod, then stare at Sam and Castiel openly as they pass. Castiel clears his throat and tries to remember what to do with his arms. He’s always thought they should be retractable when not in use.

“How much do you weigh?” Castiel asks Sam at the entrance.

“Um. Two-Twenty. Give or take. Why?”

Castiel holds the door for him.

“I have a curious mind.”

“That’s not the word I would use,” Sam says. He puts his hand on the door above Castiel’s and ushers Castiel ahead of him by the shoulder.

Castiel picks up his prescription sleeping medication while Sam browses paperback romance novel covers with open interest. Castiel can see him from the line at the pharmacy counter. Sam goes so far as to pick one book up to read the back, thin mouth pursing in consideration. After paying for the prescription, Castiel beelines to the family planning section, an aisle over from the books. Sam approaches him with a glossy magazine rolled in one hand.

“Angelina is still anorexic six years later, what are the odds?”

“Wasn’t she overeating last year?” Castiel asks, plucking a twelve pack of ribbed condoms off the shelf. Sam follows the motion with his eyes and they widen a fraction, fixating on the box. “You probably wouldn’t know.”

“Twelve?” Sam says, elongating the word. “You know those have expiration dates, right? Unless. Are you seeing someone? You could be, I mean.” Sam stops to fit in an irritated huff. “It’s not my business if you are.”

That’s a dumb thing to say. Castiel expresses that by dropping the condoms in the basket, along with a bottle of flavored red lubricant. He nudges Sam aside to look at the vibrating cock rings. Sam looks at Castiel’s basket, then at the young woman running the only open cash register. She pops her chewing gum less obnoxiously than usual and blushes when Sam looks at her. Castiel picks out a box of sanitary wipes. Sam hands him the magazine and goes back to the truck.

“My hero,” Castiel mutters at him as he goes.

When Castiel is on the way out the door, Mary collides with him.

“Cas!” She squeaks, cheeks bright red. “Hi!”

Castiel sighs and dips to retrieve the purse that fell when they bumped into each other. For the third time this month. When he passes her the pocketbook, she beams at him and blinks through thickly coated eyelashes. She won him at the food bank’s charity auction three years ago and has been loudly in love with him ever since. She’s quite pretty and a kindergarten teacher. Good with dogs. He detours out of his way at least once a week to avoid her.

Today, Castiel can see Sam sitting in the truck past Mary’s shoulder and Sam is looking very intently at the lack of traffic, jaw sharp enough to cut bricks. Because it’s not his business.

Castiel refocuses on Mary in degrees, like a shutter opening. She blinks at him.

“Hi, Mary,” Castiel says. He kind of---drapes is probably what he would describe it as---along the newspaper box. “I hope you’ve been well. Have you been well?”

“Oh, I have,” she says, red skin draining to sickly pale. Stage fright, perhaps. “Yes, thank you.”

“Good. That’s good. So---how is. What do you do again?”

It goes on like that for a few minutes, right there in front of the pharmacy, confuses the hell out of the two old men that had him pegged as Sam’s, confuses the hell out of Mary, too, and for once, Castiel lets the awkward moment linger, plays out the part enough that Mary starts to get a white line between her eyebrow and a nervous tic in her eye. Only when Sam is visibly grinding his teeth and glaring at the dashboard does Castiel say his goodbyes. 

“It was pleasant to see you,” Castiel tells Mary, and squeezes her shoulder.

“Yes, I…” Mary shakes her head, curls bobbing wildly. “Have a good day, Cas.”

Castiel floats to the truck, skin tight with expectation. He’ll consider the consequences when they present themselves. For now, the pay off.

“She‘s cute,” Sam snaps the instant Castiel climbs behind the wheel.

Castiel starts the truck, a suave grinding of gears.

“Pardon?” Castiel asks airily and turns to peer out the rear window.

“Oh, you’re pardoned, buddy,” Sam seethes, arms over his chest. He’s frowning hard enough when they pull onto the road that the ridge in his forehead is red. “I’d pardon you right now, but the hot blonde back there pardoned you all out. ‘Here, little lady, I’m just gonna lean a little like this, and blink my big blue eyes something like this, and would you please drop your panties now? Thank you, kindly.’ “

Sam mimes it all with exaggerated likeness, fluttering his own eyelashes, mascara free. Castiel’s gut twists a bit, and his heart squeezes. Poor Mary can’t compete.

“You’re obscene,” Castiel observes primly. 

“Oh, right,” Sam says, pouting. “Panty dropper.”

Castiel grins and lets his head drop against the seat, twisting to get a look at Sam because there are exactly zero other vehicles on the road, and Sam’s red cheeks insinuate a fitting shade of green subtext. Castiel is happy. Pulled by a power greater than his own will, Castiel reaches out to squeeze Sam’s thigh, warm and tight beneath the blue jeans, restrained tension, the reoccurring temptation finally sated. To touch him when the desire strikes---at last. It feels like getting away with something.

“The only panties I want dropping are yours,” Castiel says. He guides them through town with minimal attention, matching his words with images in his mind. Sam. Stretched out and lazy on silk sheets. Castiel drags his knuckles up Sam’s inseam, to his crotch, where the fabric is hottest. Sam’s eyes pop wide open, a brilliant mix of earthy colors. The road winds dangerously and narrows, but it’s as familiar to Castiel as the pucker of confusion between Sam’s eyebrows. The Sam in his mind bends one knee and smiles casually. “I bet they’d look really pretty caught around your ankles. Something green and lacy would suit your complexion. With a little bow made of ribbons on the front. What do you think?”

“I think.” Sam licks his lips. “I think you spend too much time on the internet.” 

Castiel breathes out through his nose. He withdraws slowly instead of digging in.

“We’ll work up to it,” Castiel says, both hands on the steering wheel. Tucks the picture away. For now. Sam stays pressed to the window, sweating a little unnecessarily. Castiel feels the buzz of it and puts that in an envelope as well, keeps it close. Sam stays glazed over so completely that he doesn’t notice they’ve pulled onto the access road to the boatyard until the water comes into view, blue waves cascading over the interior cab of the truck.

“Cas,” Sam says and braces on the seat.

“He keeps calling,” Castiel says. “It’s better than him dropping by tonight like he threatened.”

Sam nods and claws his hair behind his ears. When he swallows, Castiel feels an echo of it in his own throat and has to turn away, squint against the sunlight. Sorry, Sam. 

“Just ten minutes,” Castiel says.

Sunlight glares off the water in intersecting diamonds. Seagulls drift low around the dock, grazing the discards, and men and women work on or near their boats, slickers shining with water and other less desirable liquids. They pull rope, lift crates, and scrub decks. It’s a familiar stage. Castiel knows from experience that their work requires full attention, and as expected, no one so much as lifts their head when Castiel eases the truck to a stop in the chained off parking lot. Sam, though, clutches his arm rest so tightly the fake leather creaks. Castiel waits, and sure enough to set a clock by, Sam unpeels his fingers one by one, then opens the truck door and eases it shut in near silence behind him.

Castiel leads the way to the pier. Sam follows a step behind, shoulders hunched as if he’s warding off the cold of the beautifully moderate morning. The Sentiment bobs at the end of the dock, shifting gently in the light current. Castiel hops on board while Sam hovers on land, conspicuously eyeballing a seagull that keeps approaching him with an open beak, but Jack isn’t in the wheelhouse or down under in the bunk. The small television is on, though, broadcasting photographs and video of last night’s freak lightning storm. Castiel kisses two fingers and presses them against the door arch as he exits, a tradition Jack insists on.

“No luck?” Sam asks, when Castiel climbs over the side of the boat. “Oh well, I guess we have to go home.”

“So soon?” a voice booms. “You just got here!” 

Sam and Castiel spin as one, to find Jack approaching them in slickers and yellow rubber gloves. He’s so blonde his hair is white, as fluffy on his jaw as it is on his head, and his skin is the same color as the lobster he traps, but twice as shiny. A fortune teller could use his forehead as a crystal ball. He is on them in seconds, legs eating up the dock effortlessly, boots squeaking with every step. 

“I’ve been calling you,” Jack says, stopping before them. He squints sideways, peers at Sam. “Guess I know why you’ve been home sick. It‘s good to see you, Sam. You look---”

“It’s good to see you, too, Jack,” Sam cuts in, stabbing his hand out.

They’re roughly the same height. Jack takes his time accepting Sam’s hand, and when he does, his eyes stay closed off in a way Castiel rarely sees. The expression on Sam’s face, sick with hope, makes Castiel think about meeting Sam for the first time, and it hurts to consider how little Sam meant to him then; someone, no, no, something, to be managed. Sam Winchester, the situation.

“Been away a while this time,” Jack notes, still clasping Sam’s hand.

“Yeah, I, uh---” Sam looks to Castiel; a baby deer in the lights of a speeding truck.

“He can’t always get time off.” Castiel steps up to Sam, shoving with his hip so that Sam is forced to drop history’s longest motionless handshake. “I’ve told you that, Jack.”

“Anyways,” Jack says briskly, as Castiel glares. “Two years now, at least. The girls are at school. On academic scholarship.”

Sam smiles, shoulders falling an inch.

“Cas told me,” he says, and Cas nods quickly. “Good job on them, man. You should be proud. I wish I could have seen them graduate.”

“They did it,” Jack sniffs, but a smile melts over his face like grease in the sun. “Proud, though, yeah that I am. They’d like to see you, but they’re taking summer classes. How long you here for?” 

Sam wavers, visibly, and his gaze drifts out to sea. 

“Just the day. I got in last night.”

Jack purses his lips and Castiel winces. Jack really likes Sam, Castiel knows. Sam’s second summer here, the one time he was allowed to stay for nearly three months, they probably spent more time sleeping off drinks in Jack’s spare bedroom than they did in their own home. So it’s not that Sam rubs Jack the wrong way, especially. It’s just that Jack is always here when Sam leaves, and the bullshit story they give Jack about Sam’s work, Sam’s sick aunt, Sam’s student loan determined relocation issues---it smells worse every year. Jack is the kind of man who put his roots down when he was young, and he has never traveled more than two hundred miles from those roots since they were dug in. He thinks Castiel should be Sam’s roots. He’s a sentimental man.

So Castiel is already in motion when Jack says, “We should sit down, Sam. Have a chat,” grabbing one of Jack’s thick arms, towing the man down the pier three boats before releasing him and stepping away to cross his arms over his chest. Jack removes the rubber gloves with intense concentration and plops them in the bucket. The breeze stirs up tufts of his baby duck hair.

“Don’t know why he’s even here,” Jack says, finally, voice gruffer than normal. “Aunt Sara has Lyme disease. Or was it his Uncle Peter? I know a wife and kids waiting at home when I see it.”

“It’s not like that,” Castiel says. “Do your enormous ears hear anything or just release hot hair? We’ve had this conversation before and I seem to recall you agreed to mind your own business. Sam is a good man. And a very close friend of mine. End of argument.”

“Close friend?” Jack chuckles, mustache curling. “I have a close friend like that. You might know her? She won the tire throwing competition in Portland last month? Oh, yes. That’s my wife.”

“You’re not as funny as you think you are,” Castiel says.

“I’m also not as dumb as you think I am,” Jack says. “Cas, you can’t keep doing this. He walks in and out of your life like he owns you, and sometimes I think---”

“What?”

Jack looks away, wrinkling his red nose. “Maybe he does.”

Castiel follows Jack’s gaze, to a net floating in the waves. A fish wriggles in it, gasping. He uncrosses his arms and drags both hands over his face, rubbing from eyeball to ear, pressing the exhaustion away. It comes away on his fingertips in fragments of salt.

“So what if he does? I choose to wait. My choice.”

“You always say that,” Jack says, then sighs wearily. “I just want you to be happy, little guy. You’re not getting any younger, you know.” 

Castiel considers the ache in his lower back. “Don’t I know it.”

Jack looks over his shoulder, presumably at Sam.

“I hear you, Jack. Listen---I didn’t want to tell you, because it’s complicated, but it’s different this time. I’m done waiting after this. I’m going to die someday.” And Sam will come down the mountain to find him shriveled up on the welcome mat, if the dogs haven’t eaten him. “I’m only human.”

Jack’s eyebrows jump and bunch like they do when Castiel is especially off.

“So I get it,” Castiel says quickly, and cuts a look back at Sam, who is helping another man lift a heavy trap out of the water while a seagull frets at their feet, bouncing around and flapping its wings. “Don’t get mad at Sam, is all I’m saying. I chose to wait. And I’m done with that now. It’s time for a change.”

“So what’s next?” Jack asks, and Castiel turns to find Jack had followed his gaze. “Is he staying or are you going? Because you’re as much a mess over him as I’ve ever seen you.”

Castiel shakes his head. “Just come back and be nice to him, Jack. Please?”

Jack’s mustache drops ominously, but he nods and follows Castiel back to Sam, who slowly regrows his spine as Jack speaks to him with an inch less hostility. Jack doesn’t let them leave without setting a time to meet up at the bar later that night, and Sam frowns when Castiel instantly accepts like they have all the time in the world, but nods and nearly curtsies when Jack makes a move toward him that ends up being a combination of a hug and a shoulder slap. Castiel laughs all the way to the truck.

In retaliation, Sam listens to Drake’s “Hotline Bling” at max volume and slaps his own hand, sending it spinning from the elbow in time to the beat. Castiel mimes throwing pepperoni on a pizza because two can play at this game. The moral of this game is that six years ago, Drake made a music video bad enough that an angel-turned-human and his basically-a-zombie lover could still mock it without ever misunderstanding the context.

They don’t get home until after two because Sam spots the snack bar and demands an ice cream sundae. The nuts end up all over the seat when Sam force feeds Castiel with a plastic spoon and tips the ice cream dish over in the process. They share a bath and the sticky sugar residue melts away under hot water. He sits between Sam’s spread legs because those legs go on forever, so why wouldn’t he, and tips his head forward for Sam to massage the shampoo into his scalp. Bubbles drip off his forehead into the water, sending their reflection skittering. They could be anyone.

He squeezes his eyes shut, and feels it. Happy.

Sam starfishes on the porch to read Castiel’s kindle. He doesn’t startle when Castiel plops next to him with an actual book, tucking into the notches of space his body makes available.

“Mmm,” Sam hums. “Scratch my back.”

The day stretches. Dogs demand attention. Stomachs rumble. The tablet battery dies. And through it all, sunlight gathers and shifts. And this is why. It’s so simple. Sam’s ankle bone, where bare flesh starts giving way to coarse hair. Castiel’s wrist draped over it. This is why.

Sam will never understand.

Clouds tick away like a second hand. Castiel naps at one point, just before sundown, one leg curled over the back of Sam’s. The dogs run in the yard until they collapse in a pile in the dirt, hibernating in the sunlight as it drains away from them.

“Do you want to do anything?” Castiel asks, once.

Sam shrugs, toying with Castiel’s fingers.

They eat dinner inside, quietly, with a glass of wine each. Sam drinks his too quickly and refills his glass to the brim. He barely touches the steak.

Getting ready for the bar, Sam watches Castiel shave from the bathroom doorway, then instead of handing him the towel he snaps his fingers for, Sam pats Castiel’s face dry with it. The smile has worn off by now, for both of them, leaving their lips tight and paper thin. They stare at each other. Sam seemingly can’t look away. Castiel is inexplicably ashamed of the attention. Sam buttons Castiel’s shirt for him and lingers, toying with a loose thread. Sam breathes slow and measured, and every time he swallows, it’s audible, thick with unsaid words.

“Cas, I.” Sam clasps Castiel by the nape of his neck, fingertips faintly callused. “I should have left you alone. You were better off.”

Castiel leans up to capture Sam’s bottom lip, sucking in the residual flavor of mint toothpaste.

Sam’s eyes gleam down at him. He hunts Castiel’s mouth with his own.

Castiel’s shirt finds itself unbuttoned again.

Jack beats them to the bar by a good hour, if his shiny nose is any indication. He’s bobbing imperceptibly to the bass pulsing from the DJ’s speakers. Holly sits with him tonight, black hair purple in the strobe light, body glitter refracting all over the place. The pink stringy number she’s graced them with shows off her popping physique. She’s as big as her husband, and takes up more than her share of booth space, but as soft as Jack is, Holly is solid, honed down to the brick and mortar of her own body strength. She’d have a future as a hunter, Castiel has often thought. Her soft heart is her only weakness.

“After you,” Castiel says, and shoves Sam past the bar he’s already eyeballing.

Holly perks up when Castiel and Sam slip into the booth. Jack blinks slowly at them, blank thought bubbles forming where recognition should be, and Holly leans forward to take both of Sam’s hands into one of hers. Sam begins to smile, but it flips into a wince when Holly clamps down. 

“You still look so pretty,” she coos, bending forward. “I don’t see a hint of gray in that gorgeous hair. It’s not fair. Do you dye it?”

Sam ducks his head, hair in question slipping down like a shield.

“Oh, don’t be shy, what did I tell you about shy boys?”

“You eat them up with a spoon?” Sam offers timidly.

Holly leans against the booth and drapes one gleaming and defined arm behind her husband. The result is such that Castiel has to stare her hard in the middle of the forehead in order to ignore the splendor of her magnificently muscled cleavage. 

“All the way up,” Holly confirms, one thin eyebrow arched. “Like a pudding cup.”

“I’m right here,” Jack grumbles, but is extremely focused on opening his napkin. He plucks at it several times, frowning more and more darkly, before he grunts and shoves the thin cloth at his wife. Holly winks at Sam, brown eyes polished from her own slight buzz, and unfolds the napkin for her husband. On his head. Jack tilts his head in confused adoration, and Holly bestows a kiss on the tip of his glowing nose. She leaves a lipstick mark behind that makes Castiel’s own nose itch.

“I’m drinking whatever he’s drinking,” Sam says firmly. “Two of them.”

Jack lips at his straw, chasing it in a circle around the cup with his tongue out. Castiel goes to the bar and observes grumpily as a twenty dollar bill magically vanishes and is replaced by a plastic cup of soda and a tall glass of something orange with a cherry floating in the ice. Put an umbrella in it and Sam will drink it, so Castiel leaves the remaining $2.75 in the tip jar, and sulks his way back to the booth, where Holly is showing Sam photos of the twins’ graduation ceremony on her phone.

It’s been a few months since Jack managed to drag Castiel to Surrender’s one and only bar, and as usual, it hasn’t changed. The bar sits in the basement under a reception space that gets rented out for weddings and Bar Mitzvahs, and it’s currently named Shining, after Stephen King’s book, and while the name changes as often as the owner, the mystique about the bar is that there is no mystique. The interior hasn’t been updated since sometime in the early seventies, so faux red leather is the star component in its design, with a close second billing going to the shag carpet that sprouts out of the wall. The dance area is a slick run of black floor and a disco ball spinning proudly from the ceiling. Balthazar would love it.

Sam certainly does, if his dance moves are any indication.

Castiel drinks soda while Holly and Sam compete for the drunkest tall person award. He stirs the straw in his plastic cup absently as he watches them flap and jump around on the dance floor, bumping mindlessly into other dancers. Sam catches Holly’s elbow with his chin and hardly slows down. Jack blinks sleepily at him when Castiel looks. It’s the doofy grin that gets to him in the end. It makes Jack’s whisper curl perkily, like he’s a sassy pirate.

“What,” Castiel says.

“You loooooove him,” Jack slurs, sloshing his drink.

Castiel rolls his eyes.

“You wanna adopt his babies,” Jack continues. “You’re gonna name one Sammich and his favorite food is going to be Peanut Butter and Jelly sammiches. Sanwhosits. Sandwiches. Dammit.”

“You need some water,” Castiel says. “Or perhaps a gag.”

“Don’t get kinky with me, Cassie, my wife can beat you up.”

It’s true, so Castiel shudders exaggeratedly. Jack hums and grins, eyes glassy like marbles.

“She can keep you, I guess.” Castiel waves at the dance floor. “If she doesn’t decide to throw you over after Sam’s funky chicken steals her heart.”

“Pssht,” Jack says around his straw. “At least I got you, buddy.”

“Yeah. You’ve got me.”

A wet snake of guilt coils in Castiel’s stomach. Stone cold sober, Castiel pats one of Jack’s big paws and looks him straight in his meaty face, like Castiel isn’t about to throw him to the wolves.  
Poor Jack, kind Jack, whose two girls call him Uncle Cas, wouldn’t do the same to him, so Castiel smiles and Castiel laughs and Castiel orders Jack another round, because tomorrow, Jack’s whole world might look different. It’s unfortunate for everyone involved that Castiel is such a romantic.

A couple hours later, Jack is mumbling something about his dead grandfather’s trailer fire when his eyes abruptly slip all the way shut and he lolls forward. Castiel catches him by a finger to the forehead, no danger in that now, and pushes him back into his seat so that he drifts off against his own shoulder. He’ll be drooling within minutes. Any liquor control agent worth his weight in booze would have already kicked them out, but there are perks to living in a small town. Castiel has picked Jack up here several mornings after he slept it off in one of the booths. 

“You are a good man, my friend,” Castiel whispers to Jack’s slack features. “You supported me when no one else did. Heaven will welcome you with an abundance of joy. Rest well. You may need it.”

Jack snorts and slips an inch sideways.

Castiel turns his attention to the dance floor. Holly is still at it, full speed ahead, twisting and weaving among the six other dedicated souls. Sam is somewhat limper at this point, wilting through half hearted motions a beat behind the music. He wobbles as Castiel watches and reaches out to grab Holly’s glistening shoulders for balance. Holly swings him around a bit before Sam escapes with his hands raised in surrender, shaking his head. Holly puts her hands on her hips for a moment, then shrugs, and goes back to waltzing with her eyes shut. Sam drags his sweaty hair off his forehead and staggers down a narrow hallway lit by a single flickering light bulb. 

Castiel stands and jars the table, knocking over his plastic cup and spilling the dregs of his watered down soda among the mess of tipped glasses. He interrupts Holly where she is forming indecipherable figures in the air while singing along to Niki Minaj.

“I think it may be time to abandon ship,” Castiel says, pointing to Jack.

Holly peers at their booth, then sighs morosely. “Well, shit. Ok.”

“I’ll get Sam.” Castiel pats her damp shoulder. “He looked unwell.”

Sam is washing his hands in the men’s room when Castiel enters quietly. His head is down and he’s scrubbing his palms together, forearms flexing. Specks of glitter stick to the sheen on his neck. He doesn’t look sick. There is a single doorless stall and a pair of urinals. They’re alone. A bed would be nice, but Sam’s been shaking his ass for close to two hours, so Castiel locks the door.

As Sam shuts the water off and reaches for a paper towel, Castiel steps behind him and slips a hand up the back of his shirt. The skin is slippery. Sam jolts and spins around, elbow first.

Castiel ducks and comes up under it to get his teeth in Sam’s neck.

Salty.

Sam falls backward into the sink, shoulders hitting the mirror, and Castiel lands on him, lower halves colliding. He clenches one hand around Sam’s hip and uses the other to pinch his chin, tugging it down so that Castiel can kiss him, hard, crush their faces together until they are ground to dust. 

“Mmph,” Sam says, high-pitched. His eyes are wide open. Stars pierce Castiel’s vision, little explosions like galaxies forming, and then Sam tears his face away, gasping in rum-tinged bursts. Castiel is the perfect height to stare at Sam’s mouth; the skin around his lips is pink, like his lips have been smeared sideways. Castiel’s head is blessedly silent. Jack and the snake haven’t followed him into this room, where Sam’s mouth tastes like a lifesaver.

“What was that for?” Sam pushes on his chest, and Castiel moves back a step, hands dropping away. “Are you pissed or something?”

“You inspired me.” Castiel’s fingers open and close around air. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, now I’m inspired,” Sam mutters, and before he turns to poke at the damage Castiel has done to his face, Castiel notices the bulge in his pants. Seeing it kicks Castiel in the gut.

Sam leans close to the mirror, wiping at his mouth, and Castiel follows close behind, pressing against Sam from forehead to ankles. His stomach shifts and lurches somewhere between hunger and nausea. If Sam didn’t smell so good, like the salt on a margarita, it might lean more toward sickness. Castiel counts the knobs on Sam’s sturdy spine and watches Sam’s eyelashes flutter in the mirror. Sam’s fingers fall away from his face and he tilts his head back so that the long line of his throat is vulnerable, skin stretched tautly over his hyoid bone.

Castiel draws his palm over Sam’s shoulder, grazes Sam’s throat as Sam swallows, feeling the prickle of a day’s worth of beard on the underside of Sam’s chin. 

“You drive me to sin, Sam.” Castiel feathers his fingers over Sam’s puffing mouth, catching the heat of it, moist pressure on his skin. “Can you guess what I’ve been thinking about doing to you?”

Sam shakes his head. Castiel notches his hips close and digs his nose into the meat of Sam’s shoulder, eyes following his own pale hand as it veers south and tugs Sam’s shirt up, exposing his lower stomach and the dark wisps of hair that trail from his belly button to the top of his pants. Glitter has ended up there somehow, dark pieces of it in the ridges of Sam’s abdomen. The skin there is impossibly soft and warm. Sam sways, backs of his thighs teasing Castiel’s erection, and when Castiel inhales sharply, Sam’s shirt smells like Castiel’s laundry detergent.

It makes Castiel long for home---but that’s not the answer here.

“You have a delicious body, Sam.” Castiel reaches Sam’s belt buckle and pops the metal plate open. “I wish you had come to me years ago. Imagine what I could have done to you before I became human. Maybe this is best. I would have torn you apart.” Sam gasps and lifts his head sharply, pupils wide in the reflection. “Maybe you would have liked that.”

Sam clutches the sink, and pushes his ass back and down. Castiel grunts as it drags along the length of his penis through too many layers of jeans and cotton. With a grimace, he thrusts against the pressure, and Sam licks his lower lip. Castiel fixates on the motion in the mirror, biting his own. He’s a blur behind Sam, unworthy of focus.

“Are you trying to take advantage of me?” Sam smiles weakly. “In a public bathroom?”

“Advantage is an interesting concept,” Castiel says conversationally as he tugs Sam’s belt loose and unsnaps the button on Sam’s jeans. He meets Sam’s reflected eyes as he lowers the zipper and sinks his fingers through the opening. Sam’s eyes narrow into dark slits, and Castiel gets to enjoy the feel of Sam’s dick thickening in his grip under hot cotton. “Are you suggesting I’m in a position of power over you, Sam? I don’t feel powerful. Do you?”

Sam’s tongue peeks out between his teeth.

“I feel like you’re a tease,” Sam says.

“Good. That’s good, Sam.”

Castiel rolls his face against Sam’s shoulder and pulls his own hips back so that he can use his free hand to cup the weight of Sam’s left buttock. Clutch it. It was naked in his hand this morning. Castiel knows that there is a fine dusting of pale hair on it, like the skin on a peach. How perfect. Sam hisses when Castiel abruptly pulls his hands out of Sam’s pants.

“Don’t tell me you’ve come to your senses now.” Sam chuckles shakily. “We’re not done yet.”

Castiel uses both hands to push Sam’s jeans and boxers to his knees. 

“Oh,” Sam says, sucking his stomach in sharply.

The dimples above his buttocks make Castiel smile. He crouches down and ignores his popping knees so that he can kiss each dimple with dedicated attention. He traces a soft line between them. Sam tenses perceptibly when Castiel’s tongue wanders lower, pokes into the notch just above his ass, where he tastes like salted earth. Sam claws the porcelain sink, fingertips white. Castiel pauses, holding onto Sam’s hips. He surveys the expanse of Sam’s body; sweat sticks Sam’s shirt to his back in small patches.

“I was going to fuck you,” Castiel says. “I was really looking forward to it.”

Sam moans low, head falling forward.

“Ok,” Sam says. “Hop on, let’s go.”

“But you’re so pretty, Sam.” He pulls Sam’s ass cheeks apart. “I‘m afraid I have to take my time. I think you can spare me a minute or two.”

There are several knocks on the door, and a few shouted curse words. Castiel eats Sam out until Sam is up on his toes, sweating all over the glass mirror. Dense flavor coats his tongue. He fights his gag reflex at the sharpness of it, can’t get air he’s so far up Sam’s ass, perspiration stinging his eyes. It’s inconsequential. Castiel wants more. Sam makes high pitched sounds when Castiel opens his jaw wide and stiffens his tongue to stab it deep. Castiel does it again, jiggling his mouth as he follows Sam when Sam’s dumb reflexes make him try to pull away. Sam climaxes into the sink noisily, voice three octaves higher than normal as he cries out Castiel’s name. His whole body shakes as he comes down.

“Cas,” he says, hoarsely. “You’re a fucking prodigy, what the hell.” 

Castiel stands and unsnaps his own jeans tensely. What he can see of himself in the fogged up, streaky mirror, reflects an angry man with a singular target. He places a firm hand on the center of Sam’s back, and Sam drops low, all but laying in the sink so Castiel can reach him. Castiel has him then, spreads Sam open and rises over him like a romantic painting of war. Spit is all they have, so it’s nearly too dry, but Sam sways forward and back in time with Castiel’s thrusts and he has one hand stretched backward, clutching Castiel’s hips, so if he’s in pain, he’s okay with it. 

I love you, Castiel thinks in scattered fragments. 

“Take it,” he says, instead.

Castiel lifts one knee to the sink for leverage. Sam’s expression in the mirror is exhausted bliss, slack mouth and distant eyes. Castiel thrusts quicker, and Sam squeaks up the mirror, grunting. He blinks slowly, eyelashes sticking together, and looks Castiel directly in the eye, and an echo pulls Castiel up from the inside out, and he’s slamming into Sam until he’s there, frozen on the edge of agony.

He holds himself deeply inside Sam, wishes his fingers were sharp so he could sink into Sam and trap him that way. He wants to consume him from the inside out. The world goes white.

“Did I take advantage?” Castiel asks Sam’s sweaty shoulder, ears still ringing.

Sam groans in answer, and shifts around under Castiel’s weight, pulling his underwear up gingerly like he has sore---everything. The bathroom light begins to take on a less romantic hue without the urgency of sex driving him. Castiel reaches around and pulls Sam’s jeans back together, sighing into his neck. He feels Sam turn and press his cheek to Castiel’s forehead. Castiel’s throat spasms and he swallows, trying to catch the runaway hurt.

“I’m sorry I can’t stay,” Sam whispers.

Castiel exhales slowly and pulls his body off of Sam’s so that it holds its own weight.

“Wash your face,” he tells Sam. “Jack’s sloshed. We’re leaving.”

He pauses after unlocking the door, and looks back. Sam is halfway to the stall, moving gingerly.

“You’re sick by the way.”

Sam looks back in question.

“That’s why it took us so long. You just can’t hold your liquor.”

Sam smiles and his eyes are the softest Castiel has ever seen them. He loves Castiel, after all.

It breaks Castiel’s heart.

 

*

Jack and Holly need a ride home. Castiel fits Jack between Sam and him in the truck somehow, though there is a lot of unnecessary snuggling born in the process. A curse-level memory spell would come in handy at the moment. Holly is stuck on Sam’s lap. Jack won’t like remembering it, but for tonight he nuzzles against Castiel’s shoulder and asks him about his dreams in a voice as tough as a pile of feathers. So Castiel does them all a favor and minds the bumps. When they pull into the sprawling ranch-style home, Jack is asleep and Holly is giggling wildly, singing along to the radio. She’s mysteriously procured a trucker hat and tipped it roguishly on her head. 

Castiel stares ahead, at the gravel drive.

“Get out,” he says.

Sam gives him a look that Castiel feels more than sees.

“Get out, please,” Castiel emphasizes.

Sam sighs at length.

Castiel glances discreetly at his watch as Holly disentangles from Sam and manages to spill out the door with her dignity attached, despite the loss of one of her heels. Castiel is left with the thumping of his heart as Sam and Holly drag Jack inside, and too much space to think. He leaves the engine running. A yellow tabby cat Castiel recognizes from the neighbors darts outside into the bushes, tail spinning. Castiel counts his breaths until he can let go of the steering wheel without breaking his hands.

Sam and Holly emerge a few minutes later and hug in front of the truck. She’s lost her hat and her other heel. As Castiel watches, Holly pets Sam’s hair in a way Castiel knows from having touched Sam’s memories, will remind Sam of a mother he never really met. A dimple dents the side of Sam’s face, and tick-tick goes Castiel’s heart. It’s time to go, dammit. Holly glances at Castiel through the windshield, skin washed ghostly white by the headlight beams. She purses her lips and says something to Sam, and Sam nods, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he pivots away.

Castiel rolls down his window with the manual lever as Holly approaches, and gets a whiff of salt water as it picks up pieces of her hair and tosses it around.

“Sam told me he’s leaving tonight.” Holly rests her forearms on the truck. The sober tone she uses is startling. “You want to come spend a few days with us?”

Sam stands in twin spot lights, chin lifted toward the stars. Castiel shakes his head slowly.

“If it goes bad,” Castiel defers, “then yeah. Have a little faith, Holly.”

Holly’s face pinches somewhere between a grimace and a glare.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she says. “No man is worth breaking your heart over.”

Castiel rubs his forehead. “Go toss Jack in a cold shower. I’ll be fine.”

Holly all but growls and reaches out to take hold of Castiel’s face. She looks at him squarely as Castiel struggles to straighten his expression, and her nails gently graze his ears.

“There’s something so off about you, Cas,” she says, eyes tracing his features like she’s looking at the him that lives inside her, not the him that is sitting in the truck. “I didn’t like you at first. Maybe you knew it. I thought you were weird. A little too formal. Like a robot. I couldn’t figure out if you felt anything. Jack took a shine to you, though, so I got over it. Turns out you were just really sad. Something really bad happened to you. It’s not my business what.”

Castiel tries to pull away, but she pinches his chin.

“Now, I love you. Jack loves you. All we want for you is healing. So stop looking backwards. There’s more for you than whatever made you the way you are. Life your life, Cas.”

Castiel gently pulls her hands down, away from his face. It hurts her feelings, Castiel can tell, so he places a gentle kiss on her knuckles before releasing her.

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” he tells her honestly. “Go tend to Jack. I’m fine.”

Holly chews her lip, hesitating. Castiel says nothing more so she nods, the hurt lingering on her face until a veil slips over it, and she backs away from the truck.

“Night, Cas,” she says.

“Goodbye, Holly.”

Holly goes to Sam again and kisses him on the cheek, then darts away, muscular legs flexing as she escapes inside, shutting the door behind her. Sam climbs back into the truck with a noisy squeak of hinges and stares openly at Castiel as they pull out of the driveway.

“What?” Castiel asks, hurting all over, like every bruise he’s ever had is just under his skin.

“She seemed upset.”

Castiel shrugs.

“She told me to take care of you,” Sam tells him.

Castiel turns the wheel and nods absently, bruises flaring.

“I can’t do that, Cas. I wish I could.”

“You’d be surprised what you can do,” Castiel says.

He turns the radio on. He can’t find the station Holly was listening to. It’s all static.

 

*

“Let’s not talk about it, ok?” is the first thing Sam says when they walk into the house. He pushes Peach aside so that he can sit down on the bench by the door. She warbles at him and noses out his face while he bends to untie his bootlaces. Each lace is a battlefield and his hair is the bunker he hides behind. “All I wanna do is have a drink with you and watch something mindless.”

Castiel bends down so that he can kiss on his temple, taste the sweat from earlier.

“Whatever you want, Sam.” Castiel lingers, lips hovering. “I mean it.”

Sam releases from his crouch, the slow unfurling of a beast from the shadows, every muscle laced with intention. He steps parallel to Cas and looks down at him from hardly a foot away. His eyes are deeper shades of brown in the dim light. Castiel’s stomach goes liquid. He wets his lip. Sam’s eyes refocus at the movement, sharpen. He leans in and doesn’t kiss Castiel, not really, just takes Castiel’s bottom lip between his own and licks the surface of it. They don’t close their eyes.

“Whatever I want,” Sam whispers. “I think that’s a pretty long list.”

It’s too bad there isn’t enough time. They both know it. Sam’s clock has nearly run out.

Castiel tries to smile. It wobbles.

“I’ll get you a beer,” he says. “Don’t be picky; it’s not a local brew. I don’t make enough to support that habit.”

Sam may or may not watch Castiel escape. Cas doesn’t look back to see. Castiel finds him in the living room after, melted into the sofa with his bare feet up on the coffee table. His socks are rolled up in a ball on the rug and his eyes are barely open. Castiel hands him the amber bottle with the cap already off, and Sam takes it with that quick smile of his, there and gone. 

“Thanks, man.” Sam pats the couch. “Hey, c‘mere. You haven’t had a single drink tonight. Relax. Sit with me.”

Castiel shrugs and sits next to Sam, not so close as to be snuggling, but he can feel Sam’s warmth without trouble, and when he crosses his legs, his knee rests on Sam’s thigh. Sam settles on a rerun of Golden Girls, and after a few minutes slouches down so that Castiel falls more into him. He throws his arm over the back of the couch and Castiel turns, goes deeper, body collapsing against Sam’s side like a piece of paper burning out. Sam squeezes him, a rumble of sound rolling out of his chest that feels something like happiness. With time, Sam drifts off, and Castiel stays where he is, caught between the present and the future. 

Two episodes in and Sam startles awake, sitting up straight like a toy solider with rusted joints. Castiel straightens with more care, hand coming out to rest on Sam’s tense shoulder. 

“Sam?” Castiel’s mouth is very dry. He can’t swallow.

Sam stares blankly at the television.

“I need to piss,” he say, each word deliberate.

Sam moves to stand and sways.

Castiel stands with him. Sam puts a hand up, blinking quickly. He looks around the room, face nearly translucent, sweat glands popping out fresh moisture. He tries to take a step and runs into the coffee table, knocking it askew and toppling the pile of books. Sarah yips and scuttles out of the room, but Peach gets to her feet and moves closer to Sam, as if she wants to break his fall. Sam leans on the arm of the couch, hunched and breathing loudly through his nose.

“You’re sick,” Castiel says, crowding beside him.

“No, I.” He pushes at Castiel weakly, dazed. “Just give me a minute. I’ll be good to go.”

Castiel touches his shoulder. “You’re trembling.”

Sam peers at him as if Castiel is far away, cheeks bright red.

“It’s my last hour,” he whispers. “I don’t want it to be like this.”

Chilly ash settles over Castiel’s heart.

“It’ll be fine,” Castiel assures Sam, smiling gently as he rubs circles on Sam’s back. “Go lay down. I’ll be in after I take care of the dogs. I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

Sam nods and straightens slowly

“Don’t forget to wake me,” Sam slurs. “I just need ten minutes.”

“Of course,” Castiel says. “Rest now. It’s not time yet.”

Supporting himself with the wall, Sam stumbles out of the room and down the hall. Peach follows just behind, tail low between her legs. Castiel waits until they are out of sight to collapse on the couch and put his head in his hands. He grabs his own hair, yanks at the temples and bends into himself, glaring at the carpet. Calling at this point would be pointless. He has to have faith. A wet nose touches his cheek, followed shortly after by a hesitant scrape of a big tongue, and Castiel lifts his head to find Roxie staring at him from down the length of her impressive snout. Brown eyes glisten at him.

“That’s very kind of you,” Castiel says. “Did you get abducted? Are you an alien from another planet posing as my dog to obtain intelligence about religious specimens?”

Roxie huffs and pads close enough to set her chin on Castiel’s knee. Castiel strokes her skull, feeling the rough bristles of her fur, the grove of bone beneath. He feels like someone has breathed smoke into his lungs. Roxie whines, nails clicking as she shuffles closer.

“I know,” Castiel says, hushed and just between them. “You’re worried. What if it doesn’t work like it should? Maybe this is a mistake. Do you want to me to leave it alone? Well, I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t. It’ll be fine. You’ll see. I’ll make you see.”

Roxie’s floppy ear perks, but her only response is the stream of warm air on Castiel’s thigh.

When Castiel’s heart rate slows, he pushes Roxie aside and follows Sam to the bedroom. On the way down the hall, he fixes two crooked paintings left in Sam’s wake. Sam is already passed out when Castiel enters the room, stomach down over the covers. His arms and legs are spread to occupy maximum space. Peach is stretched out on the floor at the bottom of the bed, methodically chewing each nail on her front right paw. She lifts her head when he approaches, tilts it, then resumes her grooming.

Sam at dead weight is like a fallen redwood tree, so Castiel leaves him where he fell. Instead of breaking his back, Castiel pulls a quilt from the top of the closet and drapes it over Sam. It only covers him shoulder to thigh, but it will have to do. Sam exhales noisily and makes a hurt sound, low in pitch and from the back of his throat. The skin on his forehead is cold to the touch and clammy. 

“Sam,” Castiel says.

Sam’s eyebrows pucker, but he doesn’t respond.

Castiel goes to the bathroom and pulls the bag from the trash bin, tying it off and setting it aside. He gives it a quick rinse in the sink and brings it with him back to the bedroom, setting it on the floor by the bed. He crouches beside Sam’s slack face, hands hanging loosely between his knees.

“It’s just a side effect,” he says, summarizing. “In the morning you’ll wake with a headache and food will have a metallic taste. You may experience strange dreams. Suicidal thoughts are possible, but I assume since you will be asleep for at least twelve hours that I shouldn’t be concerned about that.” Castiel pauses and drops closer. “We can worry about that tomorrow, Sam.”

Sam snorts and shifts, fitting his cheek more soundly into the pillow.

The dogs are better conversationalists.

Castiel rests his forehead against the side of the bed for several minutes, feeling Sam’s warm, slightly sour breath wash over his head. When he can, he climbs to creaking knees and lurches into the bathroom, easing the door shut behind him. In darkness, he empties the contents of his stomach as soundlessly as he is able until only dry heaves are left. He holds his stomach and pukes up the remaining air, one lung at a time. After he’s done, Castiel doesn’t look at his dark shape in the mirror as he rinses out his mouth with fluoride wash. He knows what he looks like.

When Castiel passes Sam again, he sleeps on, foot sticking out to the whims of the air. Peach has made her way under the blankets as well. Only her hind quarters are visible.

Castiel turns the bedside lamp off, and leaves them.

 

At the back door, Castiel pulls on the trench coat Sam bought him, and lets it hang open, unbuttoned over his jeans and sweater. He goes outside with a burst of cold air and maybe it’s the hint of magic crackling like static on the ends of his hair, or the purple glow to the sky, but stepping over the threshold feels like parting with an essential lie he’s been telling himself. Sarah and Roxie both attempt to follow, but he seals the door firmly on their snuffling snouts. Scratches and whines answer him. 

Castiel paces the perimeter of the garden, looking at the night sky, the sliver of the moon, and eventually, the dogs settle down. In the silence, Castiel is truly alone. Silence fills the gap their displeasure leaves behind, and a thick layer of clouds roll in to obscure the billions of stars calling Castiel home. The planet is spinning and he feels like he’s standing still.

Castiel taps the button on his watch. A green glow lights up the display. 

It’s nearly midnight. 

There is a chance that a lot of good people will die.

Castiel shakes his wrist out and pokes at that thought like he is tonguing a sore tooth. The tooth bites back. Maybe there is a threshold to guilt that, once reached, diminishes its power.

Castiel shivers and tucks his hands into his jean pockets, curling his shoulders against the cold air coming off the water. He breathes in and waits. Faith is a man built construct. A coping mechanism. A gamble. It fills him with terrible hope. This has to work. The prison requires a lock. Someone with the same pathology as Sam. The same debt to hero ratio. The same genetics.

“You’re freaking out,” a familiar voice drawls. “Second thoughts?”

Castiel jerks, heart pivoting behind his ribs. A shadow detaches from a tree outside the garden, faint moonlight catching on the stubble lining the shadow’s face before the figure resolves into that of Dean Winchester. He steps into the yellow light cast from the living room, duffel bag hanging from his shoulder, and the mutinous pit that is Castiel’s emotions writhe in his guts. If it were possible he would collapse in relief and stiffen in fear simultaneously. 

Instead, the conflicting urges cancel each other out, so when Dean lifts his eyebrows in question, Castiel springs forward to give Dean a strong one-armed hug. Dean suffers the affection stoically. Castiel sniffs him and he doesn’t smell like the inside of a beer bottle for once. Instead he smells like John Winchester’s cracked leather jacket and Old Spice from a hundred miles ago.

“You look better,” Castiel says, stepping back for a real inspection. “Are you better?”

Dean does a waltzing turn, shuffling three hundred and sixty degrees, and flashes a smirk. The clothes hanger he was last year is gone. Some of the muscle is back and his cheekbones are noticeably fuller. His hair is short again. It’s military regulation, the tightest Castiel has ever seen it, faded around his neck and ears with the barest extra left on top to soften the cut. Castiel doesn’t miss the greasy mess it had been, or the trucker cap Dean had used instead of a comb. The steadiness of his hands as he does a half bow to finish the spin suggests he’s fed himself more than what comes out of a brown bottle today.

It might actually be good to see him, Castiel discovers, with some surprise.

Dean winks, like he knows. There are still smears of sleeplessness under Dean’s eyes, but he looks like a version of himself who can make the world stop spinning.

“Not good,” Cas amends, pointing. “But better.”

“Not exactly fighting them off now,” Dean admits, shrugging lazily, but his eyes drift past Castiel and linger on the lit window. His nostrils flare. Tension rises in the air like blood pressure. Dean wants to go inside and he can’t. It kills him. They both know it. The magic is in the sacrifice. Castiel squeezes Dean’s shoulder beneath the cold leather and Dean drops his gaze, swallowing. 

“Is he inside?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, and offers no more.

Dean nods. After a moment, he raises his hand to his twisting mouth and rubs the tell off. He turns away from Castiel and walks a few steps. Stops.

“Thank you for coming,” Castiel says quietly. “I knew you---”

Dean takes three quick steps toward the house. Castiel darts in front of him. The dogs bark inside, excited yips, and scramble with renewed energy behind the door. Castiel shoves Dean back, and for an instant, Dean’s eyes glitter, green heat, and Castiel thinks there might be a different fight on his hands tonight, then Dean spins away again, into the dark. He paces.

“I can’t see him, right?”

“No,” Cas agrees. “Not in any way that counts. But here, I, uh. I have a photo?”

Castiel wipes the sweat off his palms and fumbles his phone out of his back pocket. Dean comes to his side almost reluctantly, crooks his head to follow along as Castiel pages through the applications until he finds the photo gallery. Castiel’s fingers tremble faintly. Hopefully this doesn’t accidentally break any rules. Sarah by the water. Sarah eating a flower. Jack pulling a net out of the water. An accidental selfie of his nostril he keeps meaning to delete. And there it is, the thumbnail of Sam. Castiel selects it and feels Dean bump into him as the display fills with the tungsten photo. 

It’s from tonight at the bar, pixilated and flaring at the right edge from too much exposure. Sam sits in the booth, grinning, and one hand is caught in a mid-motion blur as he tries to hide his face. His hair is tucked behind his ears, eyelids partially lowered. 

Castiel feels more than hears Dean inhale.

It’s the first time he’s seen his brother in six years.

“He looks happy,” Dean says, voice hoarse. Dean meets Castiel’s eyes, gleaming with moisture in the artificial light. “You do that?”

It sounds more like accusation than credit, but Castiel can only shrug. 

Sam’s happiness is riddled with trip wires.

“He laughs a lot. I don’t remember him doing that before,” and off Dean’s flinch, Castiel tries to sift through his memories for evidence that he is what makes Sam happy. There’s a lot there, but catching a single moment and holding it up for Dean to examine makes Castiel’s mind go blank. “I can’t answer that, Dean. The only thing I know for sure is I can’t let him die again. It’s not in me.”

Dean’s eyes sharpen and he backs up, squaring off.

“Good luck explaining that,” Dean mutters. “You sure you can live with this? I’m not backing out. I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into here. You’re still a bit wet around the ears when it comes to, well, almost everything.”

Castiel huffs out a breath and tries again to find the words. They don’t have much more time to figure out the right thing to say to each other.

“I know what I’m doing, Dean.” Pancakes on Sunday, puppies fix everything, lighting candles when the power goes out. “I know I’m risking everything I have left.” Castiel driving his first bumper car into the wall where Sam herds him, Sam reading out loud to him while Castiel rakes the yard, Sam’s belly flexing as he arches so prettily for another kiss. “I’ll live with it.”

Dean snorts. 

“Man, my heart bleeds for your noble sacrifice. Really. Hand to God.” Dean raises said hand to the sky. “You’re gonna be his family, Cas. Hell, from the looks of it, you already are. This is all your plan. I’m just the---match that lights it up.”

“I don’t want you to feel bad for me.” 

“Sure, Cas.”

Castiel clenches his jaw. “I just---”

He just wants Sam and this is how he can get that. He doesn’t want Dean whispering in the back of his head like a poorly spoken Edgar Allen Poe narrator, but if that’s the trade off…

“You feel guilty.” The false empathy drips like melted sugar and Castiel wants to hit something. “You’re hanging me out to dry here.”

“He might not forgive me for this,” Castiel offers. “I’ll have to make him.”

Dean stares at him, and behind him, the trees along the road shift with the wind, dark arms reaching up and out. Castiel lights up his watch and then slams his eyes shut in frustration, closing his hand over his own wrist until the glow dims.

“You really have no idea,” Dean says, voice softer. 

“What?” Castiel grates. “We don’t have time for this.”

“Sam isn’t going to throw you to the wolves for this, Cas. He’s going to look soulfully into your eyes and try to understand where you went wrong and then he’s gonna try to fix you.” Dean chuckles, shaking his head. “Oh, well, he’ll resent you for the rest of both your lives and twist the knife about it when you least expect it---but that’s situation fucking normal for a Winchester, dude. We eat guilt and resentment for breakfast. It’s on the business card.”

“I never read the fine print, I’m afraid.”

Dean smiles and it’s anemic, wilted before it begins.

“He’s going to take care of you, Cas. Lemme tell ya, if some metaphysical prison needed me to walk you off a cliff, and if that meant I’d get to be part of a real family again, you wouldn’t even see me coming before you hit the rocks. Even if he hated me for it.”

Castiel finds himself picturing it. The rocks would almost be a relief at this point.

“Nice, Dean,” he says, because that’s his script.

Dean rolls his eyes, clearly annoyed, then cuts his hand violently in the space between them.

“Take a real good look at where you’re standing, Cas. You think you’ve been so alone but you have no fucking clue. Don’t even try to feel guilty about this, because you don’t, not really. Admit you like the sweet spot and cut the bullshit. It’s the least you can do for me.”

It’s getting colder. Castiel shivers and hunches in his trench coat.

“I am sorry, Dean,” Castiel says. “What more do you want?”

“No, you’re not. I love you, man, but fuck your sorry in the eyeball. I know you’re in a hurry, but we‘re not going anywhere until you can admit it.” 

Castiel opens his mouth to defend himself again, but Dean’s eyes are blistered in his thin face, and Castiel isn’t the one in control here. Dean could burn this plan to the ground just by walking away and leave Castiel with nothing but memories that fade to the color of ash over time. Fifty or so more years until he could be buried with it and finally rest.

“This is what you want,” Dean says firmly, all teeth. “Own it.”

Eleven months before this night, Castiel spent three terrible days in Baltimore living out of his truck and it was like traveling back in time. The kind of coffee that came in styrofoam cups. Greasy fingers and fast food wrappers. His own eyes in the rear view mirrors like sightless glass. Sleeping very little, he trailed Dean to work, to home, to bars, sneering at the burned out shell of him from afar. Dean walked everywhere, dragging the street like a sticky fishing net, and Castiel went everywhere he went. It made for easy walking. Even though Dean kept his head down, eyes tracking the pavement, people scrambled to move out of his way.

It was easy, stepping on a dying bird easy, to pluck Dean from the street after last call.

To shake him back into that old familiar shape.

“I don’t want you to suffer,” Castiel says finally. 

This, at least, is true. Dean smiles like baiting a hook. He leans an inch closer and cocks his head.

“Oh, but I will, Cas. Remember that.”

Castiel looks away, at the weeds strangling what used to be a lettuce plant. Dean will consider it a victory. Let him. It’s bearable. So many other things are not. Dean grabs him by the shoulder and shakes him gently when Castiel braves his eyes again. A decade or so of love and hate, success and failure, passes between them. It doesn’t take more than a second. Castiel reaches up and squeezes Dean’s hand. He returns Dean’s smile and feels tears crest the back of his throat. When he blinks, one spills out.

Dean releases him abruptly and turns toward the mountain. Clouds have gathered around the peak, a deeper shade of black than the shadowed mass they consume.

“Is there anything you want me to tell him?” Castiel asks, wiping his cheek.

Dean licks his lips and stares fixedly at his future.

“Say it was my idea.”

“It was your idea,” Castiel repeats tonelessly.

“Make something good up about how I talked you into it,” Dean continues. He tugs the strap over his shoulder. He twists his neck and it cracks---pop, pop, pop. Castiel shudders. He remembers Dean giving in like tiny bones snapping. “Tell him---I wanted to do right by him like I used to, and that I don’t want to see him again until he’s fat, old, and bald, when all of us are dead enough to not give a shit about the living anymore.”

“You couldn’t live with yourself,” Castiel elaborates. If Dean could see inside Castiel’s head, he’d see himself puking up his guts outside an antique shop, scrubbing his mouth clean with one arm then staggering on. The vulnerable nape of his neck. He’d see Castiel’s hands snatching him by the collar of his jacket, dragging him farther and farther into a dark alley, nothing but the sound of harsh breathing as the black hole in Castiel’s heart swallowed them both. Trade places. It’s your turn. Be useful. You’re dead already, so give Sam a chance to live. “You didn’t have a purpose. It wasn’t worth it without him.”

Dean shrugs his jacket more tightly around him and looks down his nose at Castiel. 

. “You and Sam, huh? You’re so fucking creepy, man. Hope he figures that out.”

Castiel’s watch beeps, so he doesn’t respond. Making Dean understand was a nice idea, but it was never really an option. He turns the alarm off and takes the bag from Dean to rifle through the contents inside, checking off the items mentally, then wraps the strap tightly around his hand to shorten it so he can hold it at his side. Dean swallows, lump in his throat jumping.

“Time's up?” Dean asks.

“Follow me,” Castiel says.

Dean hesitates, eyes trailing to the lit house. 

“Dean.”

Dean pulls his mask back on. He waves Castiel ahead with a bow.

Castiel leads him out of the garden and around the house. They leave the glow of the house behind and push through tall grass that is faintly damp until they reach the trail up the mountain. An owl sits low on a tree they pass, and it turns its head without moving its body, following their path with an unblinking stare. If they were small enough, they would be breakfast. The temperature drops steadily the closer they get to the clearing. The cold isn’t natural. It creeps inside his clothes with ease, pushing its curious tongue into Castiel’s lungs and puffing out of his mouth in white exhalations. 

In the dark like this, with the birds so quiet and not a cricket to be heard, it’s like the two of them have returned to purgatory. Castiel half expects a Leviathan to leap at him from the side.

Castiel trudges on. His feet get wet. 

Overhead, the sky begins to glow. It’s not the northern lights. 

He’s made this walk before, on such a night. It’s his choice this time.

Dean is quiet behind him. Castiel pauses to look back a few times, making sure Dean hasn’t gotten cold feet. Castiel doesn’t know what he can really do if that happens. Let the world burn, probably. Sift through the tinder for what remains. Dean is always there when Castiel looks back, though, stern and marble-like, reflecting the faint purple of the sky.

“It’s just ahead,” Castiel says, pointing to where the glow is gathering

Dean nods and ducks his chin, staring at his feet.

When they reach the clearing, the clouds are beginning to slowly orbit around the peak of the mountain. Dean and Castiel look at each other, then as one step through the invisible magical barrier. Castiel hears Dean suck in a huge gasp of air. It’s at least twenty degrees colder within the ritual plot. He leads Dean across the crunchy grass to the big stone that sticks out of the ground. Blood stains the side of the rock. Castiel touches the dark splotch, gently, with the very tips of his fingers. The surface is frozen.

Dean approaches on his left.

“Sam’s?”

“This is where I killed him.”

Castiel can see Dean hovering on his periphery, not quite touching the stone.

“He tricked you,” Dean says. “He’s good at that.”

Castiel shoves the duffel at him. “You didn’t stop him.”

Dean watches him go, expressionless, then turns to the duffel and begins emptying its contents across the rock. Castiel circles the perimeter of the clearing as Dean prepares the ritual, setting up the candles and the iron and copper bowls. He fills each bowl with an inch of salt water. Castiel remembers the smell of the bowls---rusty, like a mineral well. Or a bloody nose. Sam had sipped from each bowl, then used the remainder to draw Enochian symbols across his forehead, then his heart. When the spell caught fire, those figures had transformed into orange embers on his skin. It was time for the wax then.

“Is it the same?” Dean asks.

Castiel startles where he is touching his own forehead with his eyes shut.

“Um.” Castiel survey’s Dean’s work. “Indeed. It’s time to draw the symbols.”

Dean replicates the symbols from a book made of delicate translucent paper. He can’t do the one on his forehead so Castiel does it for him with quick, sharp jerks. Dean nearly pulls away when Castiel presses his thumb, hard, between Dean’s eyebrows, like he’s sealing an envelope. Instead Dean locks his knees and grits his teeth until Castiel lifts his thumb, then he makes an aborted motion to rub the red spot Castiel leaves behind.

“That’s as close as I remember,” Castiel says. “This should be everything we need. My grace is already in place, so it should be nearly---”

“Painless?” 

Castiel doesn’t answer. Dean chews his thumbnail and rips off a piece of callused skin. Getting a look at his brother might have given Dean perspective enough to walk off the cliff smiling. It’s unfair that a meeting between them is forbidden, because now Dean will die like this: in the purple light with Castiel, in his father’s jacket, unsure if Sam will be safe, if Sam will be happy, if anyone cares anymore. 

“You should leave,” Dean says. 

He turns his back to Castiel and pulls a thin sword from the bag. Unsheathes it. He sets it on the rock, centering it between the candles. Castiel swallows a chunk of disgust. The blade glows with candlelight, metal reflecting liquid fire. Castiel stares, entranced.

“You don’t need to watch this time,” Dean says, not turning.

It’s unexpected kindness. Six years too late, unfortunately.

“You’ll need help,” Castiel says. The blade looks like it would be warm. “When the time comes, there can be no hesitation. You must succeed.”

Dean looks at him over his shoulder, and Castiel forces his eyes off the sword, meets the green stare of the man who changed his perspective on the universe, life, and everything.

“You’re kind of a shit friend,” Dean says with an undercurrent of pride.

“Yeah,” Castiel says. “Same.”

Tears burn his nostrils. Dean sighs and grabs him by the back of his neck, tugs him close. Castiel’s nose bangs against Dean’s collar bone. Pain bursts in his sinuses. Dean grunts like it hurts him, too. Castiel wraps his arms tight around Dean’s stark ribs and lets the tears eat away the ache while Dean pats his back with an ease unlike himself. Castiel’s watch beeps again. They pull apart.

“Got work to do,” Dean whispers. “I’ll appreciate the company.”

They stand facing each other. Castiel dips his fingers into the melted candle wax and anoints Dean’s face with it, in the same space they had drawn the water. Dean doesn’t flinch away this time. His arms hang loose from his shoulders, fingers curled naturally.

The ritual requires an Enochian verse to start the sacrifice. Castiel recites it according to his memory and forces himself to keep looking Dean in the eye, even as he stumbles over words that no longer fall naturally from his tongue. His recital of them is misshapen, ballooned in spots and flat in others. It takes Castiel twice as long as it should to deliver the entire verse. At last, the wind picks up, bitterly cold, and sweeps around their knees and ankles, plucks at their pant legs.

“It’s beginning,” Castiel says.

Electricity charges the air and tugs at his body hair. The rock freezes over visibly with a snap and sheets of ice form under their feet. Dean grabs onto Castiel’s elbows to keep his balance. Castiel picks up the sword. It’s heavier than he expects and as cold to touch as the rock. The warmth was a lie.

“You’ll carry me to the top?” Dean asks, teeth chattering. “When it’s done?”

Where the darkness will be waiting.

Castiel wets his lips and nods. “I’ll finish it.”

“Ok. Ok, let’s do this.”

Castiel sees his own face in the blade, flickering and changing shape in the candlelight. Dean is shaking ever so slightly. Castiel feels it where Dean grips him. Castiel steps back and breaks the contact, lifting the sword between them. Dean sucks in a breath and shuts his eyes, jaw seizing. The blade trembles a foot from Dean’s heart. Castiel’s own heart pounds dully in his chest, reverberating through veins. He shifts and re-shifts his hands on the grip. He grits his teeth and tells himself now, this moment, do it now.

God isn’t here. This is all himself.

Castiel levers the sword away soundlessly, gains the space for momentum.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” he says.

Dean’s throat visibly constricts.

A sound makes him pause. Dean waits, head tipped back. Castiel turns toward the trail, scanning the border of the trees for movement. He hears it again, a branch snapping. It’s clearer now. Rapid but uneven footsteps. When he turns back to Dean, his eyes are slits focused in the direction of the noise as well. Castiel centers the blade again, and Dean’s attention twitches to him, the whites of his eyes showing. 

“No!” reverberates across the field. A bat spins wildly out of the treetops. 

Castiel drops the blade instantly. It clatters off the side of the rock as Castiel stumbles back from Dean, swinging toward the trail. Sam staggers in the distance, unmistakable even in the dark. Castiel collapses inward, raising clenched hands toward his own chest, where air has shriveled out of him.

“Dean, no!” Sam yells, and stumbles, throwing his arms out.

“Shit,” Dean says, under his breath. “I should have known.”

Castiel stands locked like a chess figure plucked off the board by a giant hand as Sam wavers closer and closer, momentum only slowed by the drug flowing through his bloodstream. Beside him, Dean mutters to himself and bends to pull his knife out of his boot.

“Hold him off,” he says to Castiel, then stalks away.

Castiel can’t watch him go, eyes as fixed on Sam as they had been on the blade. Sam looms out of the dark, wild and steaming white air around his body heat. He’s barefoot and covered in mud up to his knees. When he reaches the glow of the candlelight, the sweat gleams off his face and neck, the drug a fever haze in his unfocused eyes. The moment crystallizes. 

Don’t let him die. Not again. Stop him.

Sam reaches out when Castiel is within reach, but his hands close around thin air. Castiel swings up beside him, snatching his hand and crushing it in his own.

“What did you give me?” Sam asks. “What the fuck is in me---”

“Shut up, Sam,” Castiel says. “Just shut the hell up.”

Sam tries to jerk out of his hold, but the attempt is weak. They stagger together into the purple shadows. Castiel locks his arm around Sam’s neck and shoulders and hooks his foot behind Sam’s knee. Sam grunts as they tumble together onto the grass. Castiel lands on top and hits his mouth on Sam’s sternum, busting his lip and biting his tongue. Sam looks around, blinking rapidly. He’s huffing and puffing when he focuses on Castiel as if from a long ways away. Castiel drips blood on him.

“Cas, no,” he slurs, starting to writhe. “You can’t.”

Castiel restrains him and roughly combs Sam’s sweaty hair off his face.

“Don’t think about it,” Castiel urges. “Just close your eyes, Sam. It’s over. It’s already over.”

Sam moans and bucks. Castiel shoves him down hard. 

“What are you going to do? Huh? Stop fighting it, Sam. This is happening!”

Sam collapses. He begs with purple starlight in his eyes.

Castiel presses Sam tighter to the grass, fingers going numb.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Castiel whispers. “Please, Sam.”

“It’s Dean,” Sam says. Tears leak down his temples into his hair. “You’re killing my brother.”

He tries to sit up, but Castiel shoves him down again and presses his knee over Sam’s chest to keep him there. He wipes the sweat and blood from his face and looks up, peering through the darkness. He spots Dean faintly at the edge of the clearing. He holds the knife grip with both hands, tip pointed at his heart. He’s completely still, staring at his own hands. Has he lost his ambition? It’s nearly impossible to stab yourself to death. You’d have to really hate yourself to die that way.

Under Castiel, Sam pivots and jams his forearm into Castiel’s chest with enough force to lift Castiel off the ground and throw him to the side. Castiel lands in the slippery grass on his hip and Sam rises above him, body unfurling like pieces of it are being unlocked individually. Castiel gets as far as his knees before Sam grips his hair tightly and yanks his head back. Castiel cries out, seeing stars. He claws Sam’s wrist, but Sam twists tighter, bowing Castiel back. The purple of the sky, where Castiel is forced to look, is being overtaken by a sickly green haze as thick as smoke.

“Please, Sam,” Castiel whispers, swallowing his own blood. “There’s no time.”

“Stay down,” Sam orders. “I’ll deal with you after.”

The green devours the moon. Almost gently, Sam untangles his fingers from the knots he’s made in Castiel’s hair and uses the same hand to stroke the side of his cheek. Castiel sputters blood down his chin, but stays on his knees, trembling, where Sam leaves him. Even drugged and without shoes, Sam staggers toward Dean to save him. Castiel hugs himself. At the mountain peak, the light wobbles.

Dean watches Sam approach with a faint smile that is neon green.

“Good to see you, little brother.”

“This isn’t your place, Dean,” Sam says. “I’m dead already. Just let me stay gone.”

Dean gazes at Sam serenely.

“Get a new script,” he says, and plunges the blade into himself.

Castiel and Sam cry out as one. Dean’s legs tremble and give out just as Sam jolts forward to catch him, lowering him gently to the ground so that they kneel before each other. Castiel gets to his feet and Dean watches him approach over Sam’s shoulder, grinning like a ghoul. Sam holds him up by the shoulder with one hand and tries to scoop the blood back into him with the other, fingers spidery and uncoordinated. He’s whispering something to Dean furiously but Castiel can’t hear it. It’s not important. What’s important is that the purple light on the mountain is still wobbling like a top that is about to land on its side and roll away. It’s changing green like everything else.

“Sam,” Castiel says.

“Not now!”

“Sam, the ritual---”

“NOT FUCKING NOW!”

Castiel cusses and snaps out, yanking Sam across the ground by his shirt collar. Sam drags his feet, kicking up dirt and stone, then twists, grabbing at Castiel’s knees and biting whatever he can reach. Castiel drops him gladly three feet away from Dean, throwing his hands in the direction of the collapsing green rings. Sam falls slack, eyes as big as planets on his blood smeared face, and the green rings abruptly break apart, shatter with a sound like a forest of trees splitting at once, and little pieces of glimmering green light disperse into the night sky. They fade away like lightning bugs. 

“I’m supposed to be there,” Sam says, staring. He sounds numb.

Castiel stands beside him, a blank space where his body should be.

“It didn’t work,” Castiel says. He can’t feel his face.

“It wouldn’t,” Sam says. “That was part of the deal. No one could replace me. I didn’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

Castiel looks down at Sam as Sam looks up. Behind them, Dean coughs wetly.

“Your fucking guilt complex, man,” Dean says, and passes out.

*

 

They take Dean to the emergency room. He lives. He’ll never use his spleen again, but as Dean tells it, he never had much use for it in the first place. Castiel sits in a hard plastic chair in the waiting room, sipping stale coffee until it goes cold in the paper cup. Sam paces in front of him, still barefoot and covered in mud up to his thighs. He won’t look at Castiel. Castiel listens to the fluorescent lights hum and keeps his words to himself.

Jack lights up Castiel’s phone until the battery dies.

Castiel leaves it in a bin in the handicap bathroom, along with the watch.

Sam disappears after haunting the hospital for three days, and returns with a stolen four door sedan and a new set of clothes. During a shift change, they break Dean out of recovery. Unfortunately, at least for Castiel, Dean’s blue hospital gown leaves little to the imagination. He snuggles up to whoever is currently propping him up and lets his glowing white ass hang out all the way to the car. Castiel settles Dean in the front seat, forcefully untangles Dean’s fingers from his hair, and lifts up to find Sam observing across the top of the car. Sam toys with the unicorn on the keychain, mouth pursed.

“I know a place,” Sam says, twisting the keys. “It’s a long drive. You’ve got a life here. If you don’t want to leave, you don’t have to, but I’m not staying. The darkness will hit here hardest.”

Castiel closes Dean in and opens the back door.

“What were you thinking?” Sam wonders out loud, tilting his head. 

Castiel shrugs the trench coat tighter around him, sending a waft of his own body odor into his nostrils. Sweat and sickness. He needs a shower badly. They all need a good scrub, except for Dean, who knows the right nurse to beg for sponge baths. Castiel thinks of Sam’s knobby knees in bath water, bracketing his own. Sam on those knees, securing a leash carefully to Sarah’s collar.

“You really don’t know?” Castiel asks, and his voice cracks.

Sam stares him down, and the sun is at an angle on his face so that his irises light up the color of copper pennies. Castiel lifts his chin. Let Sam see it. Castiel isn’t sorry. Not really.

Dean sleeps through most of the ride. Castiel crashes in the back seat, coat rolled into a pillow under his head. Sam listens to the news non-stop, and the stories begin to run together. Random acts of violence. Good people doing bad things. A viral outbreak in a small town in Vermont. Castiel dreams of the dogs as puppies. He’s washing them down, and their fur keeps coming off in his hands until he reaches their naked skin and finds scales instead. When Castiel wakes up once, he finds Sam’s eyes on him in the mirror, unflinching and the color of muddy water. Focused.

Castiel puckers a kiss at him, and Sam looks away. Dean asks for food.

They cut through Chicago, stopping and starting in traffic.

Castiel rolls down the window and sniffs the air. They drive by an underpass where Castiel used to sleep and he sees a balding man holed up in the shadowed nook. He’s wearing a winter hat and dirty army fatigues with a torn off name patch. Castiel waves and the man lifts one hand encased in fingerless gloves, smiling widely across brown spotted gums and rotted teeth.

The road trip ends in northern California. 

The Winchesters have a cabin there, deep in the woods. Gravel pops under the sedan’s tires as they pull up the rocky road, bouncing along the rivets. The cabin is more of a shack. One of the windows is busted out, and the dirty glass is all over the front porch. It’s one floor. Castiel thinks of the home he left behind, his girls. A kernel of longing pops open in his throat. He shakes it out and helps Sam unload Dean, hauling him slowly up the creaky steps and into the dark, damp interior of the cabin.

“Gross,” Dean mutters, head lolling at Castiel. “I hope you brought bleach.”

Sam clears his throat. “Actually---”

Dean chuckles weakly. 

“Put me somewhere clean,” Dean instructs Castiel, tapping his nose. “Dry is preferable.”

Castiel gets Dean settled in the only bedroom, on one of the two beds, and doesn’t think about what that means for sleeping arrangements. Dean grunts when Castiel dumps him on the bed, flinching as he straightens out inch by inch. Castiel sits by him, the bed dipping noisily under his weight and puffing up a cloud of cartoon level dust. Castiel wrinkles his nose and looks at Dean.

Dean shrugs. “I’ve slept on worse.”

“Yeah,” Castiel says. “Me, too.”

Dean chuckles until he starts coughing, holding his chest. Castiel looks through the bedroom doorway and catches a glimpse of Sam pulling fabric off the couch and throwing it to the side.

“Give it time,” Dean advises, one eye open.

“I guess we have that now,” Castiel agrees. “Dean, I…”

Dean holds up a hand, palm out.

“Please, no after school special. I understand, Cas. It was my turn, ok?”

“You wish it had worked,” Castiel says.

Dean shrugs. “Better to die a hero than the guy who got his brother killed.”

“Now you can both live.” Castiel pats his knee. “I think this way is better. For all of us.”

“We’ll see,” Dean mumbles, and settles down for good, arms protecting his chest. Castiel stands and drapes the trench coat over Dean’s legs. He looks down at his friend. 

The lines on Dean’s face are fainter when he’s sleeping, but etched deep enough to leave a trace behind, fossilized remnants of intense bouts of emotion. Deep bruises color the skin under his eyes and the stubble around his mouth is pure silver. He looks like his father. Castiel aches for the younger man who still thought he could save people.

“Cas,” Sam says quietly.

Castiel turns. Sam is propped in the doorway, dirty hair flat on his forehead.

“Are you afraid to leave me alone with him?” Castiel asks.

Sam shakes his head and points his thumb behind him.

“We need to talk.” 

Castiel follows Sam outside, where the birds are chirping and twittering their song high in the trees and sunlight glints through the branches. They cast long shadows on the steep bank. Sam stops at the trunk of the sedan, arms crossed as he leans against it, legs crossed. He’s been crying: eyelids pink and puffy at the edges. His nostrils look raw and scrubbed. Dry flakes cling at the crevices.

“I’m not leaving,” Castiel says immediately. “You need all the help you can get.”

Sam whistles.

“You’re something else,” he says. “I don’t know what to do with you.”

Castiel shrugs one shoulder.

“I have a few ideas.”

Sam looks down, arms pulling in tighter. 

“I never expected you,” he says almost to himself. “I thought---it didn’t have to be serious. I deserved something, too. Someone. And you were just---always there.”

Castiel isn’t sure he wants to listen to this.

Sam lifts his gaze. “I could have left you on the side of the road days ago.”

“I would have found you.”

“Maybe.” Sam smiles with half his mouth. “If I let you.”

Castiel steps toward him, quickly, but Sam jumps fully to his feet, warding with both hands.

“Whoa there, cowboy,” he says. “We’re not there yet.”

Castiel clenches his jaw. Trust Sam to squeeze water out of a rock.

“It’s wrong, Cas---what you did. Man, I knew you were up to something. I always do this. Fuck someone out to fuck me over. I never learn my fucking lesson.”

“You’re here,” Castiel grits. He’s not Ruby. “Dean’s here. It worked out.”

“And now billions of people are in danger. Again. Because of me and you. Because I couldn‘t leave you alone. How many people are going to die because of what’s between us?”

Castiel hears the radio again, the static crackling over a body count in Vermont.

“My choice. My fault.” He kicks a stone down the road. “And I don’t care.”

Sam’s eyebrows waver, blank shock making his face pale. He puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head wordlessly. Like he doesn’t think he heard Castiel properly.

“We do more damage than good, Sam,” Castiel says. “It’s time to stop.”

“I don’t know, Cas,” Sam says.

Castiel reaches out slowly, giving Sam time to stop him, and takes hold of Sam’s skinny wrist. He circles his fingers around it and lifts it away from Sam’s hip, stepping forward cautiously. Their shadows merge as Castiel leans into Sam, wrapping Sam’s limp arm around his shoulders. Sam smells like antiseptic wipes and sour milk, but Castiel clamps on, other hand coming up to claw Sam’s shirt, wrenching the fabric out of his waistband so he can get to skin.

It was all for this. It has to pay off.

“I loved you before you died,” Castiel whispers. “You don’t know what it did to me.”

Sam exhales shakily. His chest rises and falls, proof of life. He wilts against Castiel like a scarecrow shedding straw, no tension left in him, like that was all he had holding him up.

“How do I stop?” Sam wonders aloud. “Tell me what to do, Cas.”

Castiel leans away slightly and grabs Sam by the sides of his face, thumbs digging in. Scans his face. Sam’s eyelids drift low, eyelashes shading the dense gravity of his pupils. Castiel swallows dryly, wants to kiss him, but Sam drops his arm and uses it to bracket Castiel’s back, pull him in and wrap him up. Castiel’s nudges his forehead against Sam’s chin, drags along his jaw, where the stubble is prickly and smells like gasoline from days of driving. It burns Castiel’s skin. Sam’s nostrils flare and he rocks them backward, melting against the sedan. Castiel melts with him.

“Get the dogs, for starters,” Castiel says. “Go from there.”

Sam scratches the nape of Castiel’s neck gently. He hums.

“I can’t hate you,” he says and Castiel kisses his throat. “I don’t know if I can forgive you.”

“We’ll see,” he says into Sam’s dirty collar. “I know you, Sam. I’ve been inside your soul. If anyone could forgive me, it would be you. I believe in that.”

Sam seemingly ponders that, pointy chin poking at Castiel’s scalp.

“So we need to send for the dogs,” he says at last, voice rumbling under Castiel’s mouth. “They’re gonna be so pissed at us, man. I’m not looking forward to it.”

Castiel wraps his arms under Sam’s armpits. He stares at the blob of shadow they make across the ground, the stretch of darkness that reaches under the car tires, and listens to the thumping of Sam’s heart. The truth is actually this, and Sam must never suspect it: he does care.

It’s too much to think about. Seven billion people are hardly real. Sam is right in front of him. He is the only real person on the planet.

 

*

Castiel sees it between one channel and the next.

He pauses, thumb hovering over the remote control.

A raging forest fire is melting a small oceanside town in Maine. The fire started in the mountain and is sweeping down and outward with ravenous hunger, eating through the houses like kindling. Hundreds of people are dead and a hundred more are missing. The newscaster stands on a rocky shore with burning boats in the distance behind her, Jack’s boat among them. 

Sam looks at him from the floor where he is stretched out, head pillowed on Sarah’s ribs.

The reflection of the fire flickers unsteadily on the surface of Sam’s eyes.

 

**(End).**

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the 2015 Sastiel Big Bang Challenge. Please check out the [livejournal](http://sastiel-bigbang.livejournal.com/) or the [tumblr](http://sastielbb.tumblr.com/) for more stories. 
> 
> It took me entirely too long to write this story. Months. To date, this is the longest piece of fiction I’ve written, and definitely the most I’ve written without dragging readers along a work in progress that I never finish. I have to say that I learned a great deal about writing during these months, about how I work best, about how I can re-shape fiction if I give myself the room without readers seeing me fumble along in the mean time. It made me really fall in love with writing in a way that I never have before. I enjoyed exploring Castiel’s characterization here, getting to flesh out the chemistry I see glimpses of in the show. I struggled to make him sympathetic enough without excusing what he was doing. I planned for Dean to die. He wouldn’t, though. Winchesters are stubborn. Oh, well. They're all together again. I wonder what they're future looks like.
> 
> Thank you very much to my beta editor [satanspuddingcup](http://satanspuddingcup.tumblr.com) for picking through this enormous mess so quickly while it was at its worst and providing me with helpful feedback and encouragement. It was a wonderful to experience a one-on-one perspective during the drafting stage. I cannot thank you enough.
> 
> I’d also like to thank [beignetbenny](http://beignetbenny.tumblr.com) for the amazing art work they labored over for this story and for being patient in wait of a full draft. They are currently still working hard on the project. Check here for a link to that in the future.
> 
> To those who actually made it all the way to the end, I hope you enjoyed the story. I'm interested in hearing your thoughts.
> 
> Also, ehem. I listened to so much Jaymes Young while writing this. And Raleigh Ritchie. So. Much.


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